Oh, Canada

I find that I am a very unconvincing liar when I am hungover. I usually look depressed and more often than not smell vaguely homeless, which was certainly the case two days ago when Canadian border officials interrogated me at length just outside of Blaine, Washington.
The official in question was an imposing middle aged woman with a curt manner of speaking and a gaze like an executioner. Over the course of the next 30 minutes she would make me go from feeling completely innocent to feeling like I had somehow been a key player in Hitler's Nazi Germany.
"So, how long will you be staying in Canada?"
"Uh...19 days," I responded.
"And how are you getting back?"
"Uh...I don't know....quick shuttle?"
"Do you have a return ticket?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't know, uh, I guess I just don't plan that far ahead."
Swing and a miss. "Strike one!" called the umpire as the woman shot me a gaze like I had just tried to feel up her 16 year-old daughter. She retreated to her desk, told me to sit down, and after about 15 minutes (at this point everyone in the bus was waiting for me) came back.
"Ok, Mr. Wetzler, tell me what it is you do back home in Washington."
"Uh...I'm unemployed."
"And where do you live?"
"With my parents."
Low, breaking-ball inside. "Strike two!" This woman was absolutely owning me. Every question she asked had my eyes searching nervously for answers and looking extremely suspicious despite the fact that I basically had nothing to hide. I was innocent. Not guilty! But she had me feeling quite the contrary.
"Ok, Mr. Wetzler," she began again, "here's what we're going to do. I'm going to let you into Canada, but only on the condition that you do not work, do not go to school, and that you get the fuck out of here by February 20th."
She actually said "get the fuck out"*.
Then she pulled out a piece of paper that had the same things written on it: "Cannot work, cannot study, must leave by February 20th," folded it up, and stapled it inside my passport along with a vibrant blue stamp that said, "This Guy is an Asshole. Canada Rules."
"What an absolute sweetheart," I thought to myself. Christ, I might've even asked out the young damsel had the scenario been slightly different, say, one in which she wasn't verbally hack-sawing my legs off at the knees.
Which prompts me to ask you this, Canada: "Where is the GD love?" We're neighbors. We're supposed to be homies. We exist so that you guys can say, "Hey, at least I'm not American," and you guys exist so that we can say, "Canadians are dirty heathens." I mean, give me a break. I'm not a bad guy, and I'm not even that big of a liar. I'm not doing any of the things the woman told me not to do; I didn't put up ads this morning on Craigslist: Victoria, looking for work, and I'm not typing this blog from a cozy, well-lit cubby at the University of Victoria.
And I'm definitely not staying till February 20th. I'm staying till June.

- Boosh Clown

*She actually did not.