There were many signs that crime, the avocation of the Dindu hordes that rule Harm City and many other municipalities in Dindustan with the blubbery fist of acquisitive entitlement, such as a total absence of self-defense and martial arts schools and the near total absence of law enforcement. However, on my 11-day tour from Summit County, Utah through Wyoming and into Montana, I noticed two signs that the slathering Dindu hordes, aching to break loose from their crumbing habitat and destroy a new one, are only one charitable act away from defiling the High Plains.

Wherever railroads go, you can look out across the rural landscape over pastures of grazing animals and see box cars painted with “Bitch, niggaz, yo, hos” and various gang tags from the assorted cultural toilet bowls of Urban America. Just outside the Custer Battlefield, on the Crow Reservation, Shayne and I saw one of these ghetto trains and I thought he was going to swallow his chewing tobacco.

And what is a land decorously degraded by the hand of the ghettoland spray can without equally entitled hipsters?

As Ishmael and I drove down out of Yellowstone through the Shoshone National Forest, along the rim of winding gorges, we were astonished to come cross a dozen or so isolated bicyclists biking up and down these breathtaking heights in their bike lane, keeping close to the inner line, not venturing near the guardrail [Nor would I, terrified as I was in the passenger seat and wondering how these cyclists would be able to keep their downhill speed under control. It must be a gearing technique, not braking.] The point is, these roads have been narrowed dangerously to the point where passing pickups nearly clash rearview mirrors, for the very reason.

Coming down a mountain that had me sucking in air, Ishmael and I spotted a bison thirty feet away, right across the westbound lane, and he swerved, almost knocking out this hipster bike babe with his mirror. She had been riding on the line, putting her in a position to be hit with the truck’s passenger-side mirror. When she stopped, as we slowed, to take in the car-sized bison, she turned her bike, and her pasty face into the lane. Ishmael, his driving reflexes born of the High Plains, where 80 is the minimum speed and these people pass tractor trailers on a bend doing 90, swerved in the nick of time and saved her face from collision with the mirror. It was astounding to both of us that this extremely dangerous road was made more dangerous so that a handful of hipsters could bicycle there. More astonishing was how these people made motorists responsible for their safety instead of taking care of themselves—and we wonder where their pet Dindus get it from? Is there really a difference between the two mindsets, road-hogging hipster bicyclists stopping to sight see in a critically narrowed drive lane and jaywalking Dindu pedestrians stopping to eat their lunch in a crosswalk?

But will the elite permit their littering Dindu pets to befoul their playground?