A Love Song

What a lovely trip that was. A nice day in a Canadian "city" eating Canadian "food" and drinking Canadian "drinks," which for some Canadian "reason" must be poured in meager jigger-sized portions. When bartenders cannot free pour then no man is free.

All this after cooling our heels for better than an hour at the Canadian border. Our neighbors to the north are learning bureaucratic efficiency and spitefulness from us. While we were waiting I read the helpful materials provided by the Canadian Border Services Agency.

"Hey, it says here we can request service in French," I told my traveling companion.

"I didn't know you spoke French," he said.

"I don't."

"Why would you ask for a French speaking agent then?"

"It would be funny to ask for one and then tell them I don't speak French."

He considered for a moment. "Yeah, that actually would be kind of funny. Except they'd get mad and we wouldn't get to our hotel before bar closing time."

"Good point. It's not worth the risk."

We were finally released after answering the two probing questions posed by a disturbingly perky agent.

"Name?"

"Snag."

"Occupation."

"Moose wrangler."

"Enjoy Canada!"

"Merci."

"De rien."

"I'm sorry, I don't speak French."

Still, I managed to avoid creating any other international incidents, at least any that I remember. Probably because I had a very serious cold (which as usual did not elicit appropriate sympathy from the Lovely Bride). Speaking of heel cooling, however, the long drive home did give me the chance to update one of my favorite poems. I present a portion of it here for your enjoyment.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the bacon is spread out against my thigh
Like a beagle euthanized upon a table;
Let us go, with certain half-smoked meats,
The muttering bleats
Of nervous sheep in a fenced-in lion's den
Or a strip mall on a calcareous fen:
Lions that reek of a hideous scent
Of grease and peppermint
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not shriek, "Who are you?"
When we yell "Boo!"

In the room the women cool their heels

Talking of Rodney Dangerfield.