"The last two days," I said to my brother Barry, "were like getting your ass kicked and dragged through ice cold mud."

"That's a good analogy," Barry said, teeth chattering, cigarette smoke and steam coming from his mouth in the cold St. Louis bus station. He continued: "I hope this bus doesn't fucking flip over."

I grabbed my luggage. "That would be like getting our asses kicked, dragged through ice cold mud, and then being set on fire."

The first three days of the trip were pretty fucking great, though.