Indiana Jones and the Greyhound of Death

As I write, I sit on a Greyhound Bus rattling through the Bronx on my way to Boston, and I wonder what, in the eyes of God, I did to deserve this. (Some guesses: I serve my community only when forced, I hate small children, and I write musicals that celebrate the destruction of furry mammals, often endangered.) Whatever my crimes, however, they seem less egregious than those of the man sitting two rows behind me. Through his cell phone conversations, here's what I've learned so far:

1. He's drunk. In his words, "[The driver] said, ‘You smell like booze. Maybe you should chew some gum or something.' I said, ‘Fuck you, motherfucker.'"
2. He can't visit Canada. Rather, he can, but if he does, he won't be allowed back into the United States. I agree with him that his parole officer is being entirely unreasonable.
3. He's headed to Bangor, Maine.

From these items, there's only one conclusion: all people in Maine are drunken convicts. (True, Stephen King is from Maine; this does not disprove my hypothesis.)