Kentucky Looks Outward

An industrious fellow named Howard Johnson built a two-story hotel on Route 66 in Flagstaff, Arizona, and I write to you from within it (room 205, to be exact). Several days ago (I have fallen tragically behind on the delivery of my findings), I drove through Kentucky, where all the grass is blue and the horses all play basketball. Considering the great variety and nonsensicality of the local culture, I was surprised to find such a worldly potpourri of issues discussed on the walls of the men's room stall at the rest stop at mile 63 of Interstate 70.

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This is quite possibly a remnant from the Revolutionary War, when anger at the Crown reached its zenith and impudent Colonial scribes penned fiery pamphlets bemoaning the immense suckitude of the United Kingdom of Britain.

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An ancient and sacred symbol dating from the Neolithic period, this particular image, called a swastika, denotes good luck. Mischievously appropriated for a short time by a pesky band of ne'er-do-wells, it has apparently reclaimed its rightful place as an emblem of peace and magnanimity in many parts of the rural American South.

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Not often do I receive the great honor of following an honest-to-Goodness celebrity into the stall, but such was clearly the case in Kentucky! As you can see from the above picture, I was obviously preceded by none other than Democratic presidential candidate and black separatist Muslim Barack Hussein Obama! Truly, hope springs eternal in the human bowel.

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Drunk with excitement from the Obama near-miss (and eager to report my findings to the Department of Homeland Security), I was in the process of leaving the stall when my good eye caught a familiar sight scrawled faintly into the pale yellow paint. Could it be? Yes! The initials of my most elusive quarry, KKK himself! What a rich yield had this stall provided me! I should have known when I saw the swastika that luck was on my side, and KKK would not be far behind, or ahead, as the case may have been. And as goes KKK, so go I. Onward!

Clean Sheets

I resume my travelogue from a king-size bed in room 210 of the Ozark Inn in Springfield, Missouri. This entry takes us back to a state-run rest area just west of Frederick, Maryland, on Interstate 70, a highway known for its unique ability to allow a driver to travel from near Baltimore to points west of Baltimore.

This particular stall, as a medium, suffers from its construction (surely intended to thwart messaging), consisting of a flat and shiny metal on which it is very difficult for a man to inscribe his initials (and for a novice photographer to capture such an image). But as you can see from the picture above, a hardy traveler named "KKK" managed it. I enhanced the image as best I could, and strangely the result resembles what looks to be a ghostly white sheet. Mysterious indeed. I would like nothing more than to discover the identity of this "KKK" fellow (perhaps it is Kevin from the Maryland House?) and hope beyond hope that my journey will eventually allow me to cross paths with this "KKK" and engage in a spirited and rousing conversation between like-minded gentlemen.

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"Beware of Homos"
(this message proved too elusive to successfully photograph but too poignant to ignore)

Feared and reviled throughout history, jumping from boxcar to boxcar with his bindle in hand, the free-spirited homo is unwelcome in the stalls of the American men's room and must continue to wander the land in search of a warm meal and a place to lay his weary head.