If you thought I had nothing to say about life Asuncion, wait till you see how little I have to say about life in Seattle

I stepped off the plane in D. C. and was hustled into the enormous customs waiting area for my first reappearance on American land.

As I slowly inched down the line, large, flat screen TVs blasted a welcome home video, entirely composed of triumphant music and happy, round-faced, hard-working, multi-ethnic, freedom-appreciating, vaguely-religious Americans smiling broadly while productively contributing to society.

I watched as a young Afghani child and his welcoming, adoptive parents enjoy religious freedom together. And then I watched it forty-five more times. I was still enjoying the inspiring story of Mary, William and their son Hassan when a sharp, nasally voice dragged my attention away.

It belonged to a short, white a man in his forties who was standing on the edge of the line, looking up at a brawny, uniformed customs guard. I watched as he craned his neck to yell angrily at man twice his size, carrying a gun and wielding the power to either refuse him entry to the country or even detain him in some dark place indefinitely. But our brave hero wouldn’t let bureaucratic intimidation keep him from his inalienable right to be a sanctimonious jackass. He excersized his right to free speech by pointing out that the line was run unfairly and inefficiently.

They stamped my passport, shook my hand and welcomed me to The United States of America.

I'm back.

Join me next Saturday for "The fact that I am an uncle now makes me better than you."