“Welcome to Wyoming. Frankly I don’t give a shit how you do it back home.”

1. It is night in the late stages of my vacation. I am, obviously, in a bar. A man with slightly crooked nose, smelling of gasoline and sweat, walks in and sits to my left. A drink is placed before him wordlessly, which he consumes in thirty to forty seconds. Another is placed before him. He turns to me and offers, "They call me Kookaburra."

2. Earlier, in a casino in the soulless town of Deadwood, SD, a Disneyfied clutter emancipated from decency, a businessman with ample wattles chokes on his steak or meat entree (the scene was observed through the establishment's large bay windows so I'm not sure what the main course consisted of); his younger colleague recognizes the international "I'm choking" sign and, quite understandably, continues to beat him on the back even after the offending piece makes a parabola from mouth to plate. The back striking only stops when the older man raises his hands like an umpire calling time out and I feel sick to my stomach about the whole thing.