- the following account is being retold in retrospect and may be somewhat paraphrased

It all started on the fateful day of August 14 when my fiancé suggested to me after attending a boring wedding, “Me thinks this is the best week to visit my good friends in yonder Canada.  Alas, the time for school is nigh and we ourselves could henceforth traverse the journey via a jeep, of which the jeep I have afore mentioned is the one that is mine.”  I thought about that for a couple seconds and then told her, “That would be perfect!  I’ve never been out of the country before and that would be fun, but I’ve also been looking for another way to nonverbally communicate to my friends that I harbor a deep-seated and morbid hatred for all of them.  Leaving the country without telling them would be perfect.”  The next day we left.

After many hours of travel we reached a really big bridge.  Sara told me that this was it.  Canada was just ahead.  But first we had to make it through customs.  I had my ID and hers ready in my hand.  We needed to just act casual.  We were only crossing into Canada.  There was nothing to worry about.  Before I knew it I was being questioned by the “Officer Lady Person”. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Canada.” I was sweating profusely.

“Are you carrying any illegal firearms, fireworks, drugs, warheads, bio-nuclear weapons, or vegetables?”

“I am not carrying any vegetables in the vehicle that I am driving right now…”  It was then I realized that I should have been making eye contact with her and not staring at my navel.  But as fate would have it, she had been studying the ID’s and we made it in.

We had a scheduled appointment with Sara’s friends at a designated restaurant called “Tim Horton’s”.  It was Starbucks meets Arby’s, and they were all over Canada like stink on poop.  We had reached the meeting point and wanted to get some fresh air.  As soon as we stepped out of the vehicle, we were surrounded by dozens of voices filling the air with their foreign dialect.  I was cornered by at least 5 of them, each gazing intently at me as they kept saying, “Eh, eh… eh eh eh?  Eh! Eh eh!”  I didn’t know what to do.  “ What are you doing?” I asked.  “I can’t understand anything.  All you’re saying is ‘eh’!” 

Then one who appeared to be their chief stepped forward.  He was wrinkled with age, draped in a large moose-pelt, and around his neck was strung a rope with the skulls of many a slain enemy.  The crowed hushed as he spoke.  “This man-cub is does not speak our tongue.  He makes his tent from across the Great Wet.  I am sorry.  I give you welcome from my people of the red leaf.”  It was then that he welcomed us inside Tim Horton's to “Swallow their foods” and “Empty our peepee”.

The rest of the visit went without a hitch.  We met her foreign friends, saw Canadian geese, Canadian ducks, Canadian seagulls, ate Canadian bacon, drank milk from a bag, and watched their family perform grotesque, pagan rituals for their dead ancestors.  In parting they gave us a bag of ketchup flavored potato chips and a magical toe-ring that supposedly summons a legion of zombies to our command.   I’ll tell you what, those foreigners are CRAZY.