There’s that famous saying, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” to which I think the only rational response can be: “Good.” The SBM and I drove across Kansas today in a trip that took, best estimate, forty-three hours and destroyed something precious in my soul. You can drive for hours and swear you’re in the same place because it all looks the same. Kansas is a vast emptiness, full of nothingness as far as the eye can see, and, to quote novelist Terry Pratchett (who admittedly wasn’t talking about Kansas but totally could have been), “All you can say about the place is it isn’t anywhere else.” Near as I can tell, the only thing Kansas has going for it is that it keeps Nebraska and Oklahoma from scraping.

Now, understand, I’m not some big-city snot who looks down his nose at anything smaller than a metropolis and can’t come to grips with something as bland as a meadow. I’m a small-town boy who came from a one-horse burg where the horse took off without leaving a forwarding address. I know about empty horizons, big-ass fields, and large gaps between towns, but Kansas does all these things like it has something to prove. There is literally nothing for miles, and then, when there is something, it leaves you wishing it had actually been nothing because the something is so pathetic. Although I can’t explain exactly how, I’m sure if we eliminated it as a state, divided it into fourths and gave a chunk to each of the neighboring states, the contents of each quarter would instantly improve.

Maybe it’s unfair to trash an entire state based on a single car ride along a single interstate. Maybe Kansas has lots of interesting features, friendly citizens, and a rich culture. Maybe it’s more than just large swaths of grass dotted with the occasional cow, ramshackle towns, and filthy truck stops.

Maybe, but I ain’t going back to check.