Disclaimer: Side effects may include laughter and/or anger. Read or watch at your own risk.

There’s a rule — simple on paper, slippery in practice. Homeland Security is looking to make this the law soon.

Some cities — New York City, Los Angeles, Chicago — call themselves sanctuary cities. Which means they are sanctuaries for people in a free country called America. And Washington looks at that and says: Fine. Then your cities no longer exist whenever a passport is needed.

So here’s how it’ll work, according to the new DHS: International travelers can still land in those cities — but they won’t be processed there. No customs. No official entry. No clean handshake with the country you just flew into. Instead, the biggest gateways in the country become layover lounges with better branding.

You don’t enter where you land. You enter where you’re allowed to be processed.

It’s neat. It’s quiet. It doesn’t argue. It just moves the finish line. And if you’re the one traveling? You don’t debate it. You just follow it.

Let’s play this out, you traveler, you.

Your itinerary

Hour 0 — Paris

Not just a place — this is the last moment you exist as a person with intent. You have a destination: Los Angeles. A clean line across a map. A simple idea.

Hours 0–10 — The Flight

The plane hums like a lullaby engineered by accountants. You drift. You believe. Ten hours. That’s what you bought. That’s what they told you.

Hours 10–13 — New York City

You land. And the illusion peels back — slow, wet, unpleasant. You stand in line with the others. The hopeful. The deodorized. The still-human. A voice — calm, disembodied, maybe not even attached to a face — explains: This city is a sanctuary city. It does not align. Therefore… you do not arrive.

Not denied. That would imply judgment. You are something worse. You are redirected. And here’s where it gets good — where the system leans in close, breath warm, and says: “We’re not stopping you. We’re improving you.”

Hours 13–20 — Orlando

Time loosens. The clocks look decorative now. You sit beneath fluorescent lights that flicker like they’re trying to remember your name. You miss your connection, but it doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels… scheduled. You start to suspect the itinerary isn’t a plan. It’s a ritual.

Hours 20–26 — Houston

You land in compliance. The air tastes like paperwork. There are others here. So many others. All rerouted. All softened. The line doesn’t move — it breathes. You wait long enough to forget why you were in a hurry. Then you’re told, gently: Not here either. Try Dallas.

Hours 26–32 — Dallas

You don’t question it. You board like it’s your idea. Somewhere between takeoff and landing, you realize your spine has accepted the shape of the seat permanently. You’re becoming… portable. Time is no longer a measurement. It’s a seasoning.

Hours 32–40 — Denver

Snow falls like static on a broken channel. You sleep in fragments — ten minutes here, twenty there — like the system is rationing your consciousness. A man next to you whispers that he’s been here two days. You know you are just like him.

Hours 40–48 — Phoenix

Heat. Dry, biblical heat. Your lips crack. Your thoughts slow. Your reflection in the airport bathroom looks like someone who owes money to reality.

And then it hits you: you are orbiting your destination. Like a satellite that’s been denied clearance to land. Because the cities built to receive you refused to kneel. And the system — oh, the new system — doesn’t kneel. It reroutes.

Then the punchline evolves into something almost erotic in its cruelty. You miss your connection. Of course you do. So they send you to Mexico City.

Hours 48–58 — Mexico City

You leave the United States. Without ever entering it. You crossed an ocean to be told to go somewhere else — and now you’re doing it internationally. You are no longer a traveler. You are a demonstration. For the public to observe. For the news channels to cover and justify for their masters. Then you fly back in.

Hours 58–65 — San Antonio

And finally — they process you. No ceremony. No warmth. Just a stamp. A quiet, almost intimate acknowledgment: You found a place that agrees.

Hours 65–72 — Los Angeles

You land. Not triumphant. Not relieved. Just… completed. Like a transaction that took longer than expected but eventually cleared.

And now — now — you’re supposed to be grateful. Grateful for the tour. Grateful for the expansion. Grateful that what was once a straight line has become a sacred geometry of inconvenience stretching across continents and egos.

Because this isn’t inefficiency. This is philosophy so devoted to its own logic that it will bend space, time, and your spinal alignment before it bends itself.

And if you can’t appreciate that — if you look at 3 days of rerouting, reprocessing, re-everything, and still call it absurd — then maybe the problem isn’t the journey.

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