By the fourth inning, I had counted exactly 63 such releases. A minor puddle had formed, which splashed my shoes with each new issue of tobacco juice. Sigma Delta Ptui. But did I say anything? No. He was drunk-and had muscles.

The gift, I was told, had cost the equivalent of $40. I filled out my Customs form accordingly, and after disembarking at LAX, approached a Customs official. He was middle-aged, mustachioed and looked either surly or sleepy. I bade him a cheery "good morning." He frowned, inspected my form, then pointed to the machine.

He looked pensive, as if he were thinking of calling in the FBI. At booths to my left and right, other U.S. citizens were triumphantly returning home, no doubt with hundreds of dollars of unreported goods gloriously secreted in their suitcases. The Customs man eyed me, suspiciously now.