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Our Man on the Hound 

I knew my hoped for adventure would instead be a horrible disaster shortly after I stepped onto the bus in Tucson. It was merely a stopover already packed full of America's unfriendly, unhappy and unclean. As we slowly rolled toward El Paso I wondered, between my neighbors ungodly snores, if perhaps I should have splurged on that plane ticket after all. 
Things got better - for a while - in Texas, where I got my own row, and the dreaded stinkers were far in the back. I quickly figured out a strategy that helped during my journey. Sit in the front so when you have to change busses, which happened at least every four hours, you can be the first one out and first in line for the prized seat on the next ride. There are no manners, no giving your seat to women or children, every person for themselves. There are no prisoners taken on the hound. 
As we changed busses throughout Kansas, Missouri and Nebraska, the seats kept getting smaller and the busses kept getting fuller. By the time we arrived in Sioux City, Iowa, I was seriously considering walking the rest of the way. Finally I arrived in Sioux Falls, South Dakota where I was picked up by my sister Katie and driven the three hours to Aberdeen. I will never ride a Greyhound again and this is the last time I will talk about this unpleasant incident.

                                                               - OMITF

Our Man in the Field

[Who is Our Man in the Field?]

 

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