Every state in America has at least one law that is so ridiculous, you have to shake your head. Imagine I travel the country and spend a night in jail for breaking a few of these ludicrous legislations.

I’d start in Phoenix, Arizona, and stand outside the Diamondbacks’ baseball stadium. Making sure there are plenty of witnesses, I’d spit on the ground until somebody called the police. I’d get arrested for shooting saliva wads in public. The irony is that inside the stadium, most baseball players spit five times every minute and nobody cares.

From there, I’d drive up to the state of Washington, where it’s a crime to capture or kill Sasquatch, also known as Bigfoot. If I found the beast, I’d tranquilize him and get caught while he sleeps in the back of my truck. You can murder a Martian any day of the week or stuff a ghost inside a jelly jar, and their state troopers will look the other way.

In Wyoming, I would wait by a bar in Cheyenne for a drunk to stumble out. I’d wave down a cop while I buy the liquored man’s old, banged-up car. The next day’s newspaper headlines would read, “Tourist Gets Night in Jail for Buying Junk from a Drunk.” Look it up. It’s the law.

I’d swing over to Boise, Idaho, where campers find me cooking a life-size doll over a fire pit. Thinking its real flesh, they’d report me. Cannibalism is illegal in Idaho. If I eat Mr. Potato Head, would I get locked up for ingesting an impersonation of an Idaho spud?

I’d travel to Des Moines, Iowa, and get a job at a restaurant where I’d replace the butter with margarine. One night in jail comes with getting caught performing the hoax, but at least I’d get the real deal on my toast with breakfast the next morning in my cell.

I’d stop off in Topeka, Kansas, after a winter storm and start a snowball fight with some neighborhood kids. It’s against the law to throw even one. Maybe we should toss rocks at each other instead. No Kansas law exists against stone wars until you split somebody’s head open.

In Oklahoma, I’d hike to the woods and try to take down and pin a bear to the ground. Wrestling with a bear is illegal in the Sooner State, but nothing says you can’t box with a fox.

I’d head south with my son and stop in Tallahassee, Florida, where I’d put a “for sale” sign on his back. It’s against the law to sell your children in the Sunshine State. It’s OK to cash in a kid in Montgomery, Alabama, but if I walk down any street while it’s raining, it’s illegal to open an umbrella. I guess that wet heads are better than jail beds.

In Georgia, I’ll get cuffed at a KFC if I eat fried chicken with kitchen utensils. “Finger lickin’ good” is the language of the law, so you’d better not stick a fork in your fast food fowl. The Colonel and the sheriff might be watching.

In Mississippi, I’d work in a 7-Eleven store and stand by the soft drink dispensary to chase customers away who try to refill their Big Gulp soda cups. I can get arrested for limiting their sugar drink intake in a state where one out of three people are obese.

In Charleston, South Carolina, I’d boogie down the boulevard on Sunday. If I got caught working in an auto repair shop on the same day, I’d do double time in the slammer. Working and dancing are banned on the day when Carolinians are supposed to cool it and not tool it.

I’d trap a skunk in Fairfax, Virginia, and train it to spray intruders. I’d keep it on a leash as my version of a guard dog. If the cops found out, I’d be arrested for having Skunky as a pet. What a stinky law that is!

Driving along a freeway in Maryland, I’d shout obscenities out my car window until I see flashing lights behind me. Cursing while driving is illegal. Makes me think the jail would have to be the size of a football stadium if we put all 50 states of these offensive offenders in one cell.

Heading north, I’d stop to operate a bingo game in a senior citizen center in Jim Thorpe. If someone recognizes me from my crime spree across America, I might be doing more time. In Pennsylvania, if previously convicted as a felon, I would be arrested for operating public gaming. When Annie the Granny shouts “bingo!” it might not be for having the winning numbers. She recognizes my photo on a police poster and rats me out during my game of shame.

If I manage a deli in Hartford, Connecticut, a customer has the legal right to drop a pickle from the barrel to the floor. If the dill doesn’t bounce, I could receive a summons and a fine for selling soft pickles, a lawbreaking lunchtime no-no with any sandwich to go.

My trails to jails would end in Bangor, Maine. In the Pine Tree State, you break the law if you attach an advertisement to a gravestone. I wonder if I’d get in trouble for putting up a large sign that says, “Public Storage” for a hundred storage units that are right next to a cemetery. The same sign works for keeping stuff inside metal bins and for digging holes to house the departed. If the judge laughs long enough, I might get away with this one!

Rich Strack can be reached at katehep11@gmail.com.