Greetings from a blustery day here in the Great White North aka Victoria, Canada. The weather here has been sub-par as of late. Gusts of wind regularly reach 40 mph and a pelting rain seems to saturate everything to the bone. Oh, sorry, did I says gusts of wind of 40 mph just now? I meant to say gusts of wind of 62.324 kilometers per hour. They're on the metric system here.
I hate myself.
What other exciting things are going on in the life of Mark Wetzler right now? This is a question that has undoubtedly been burning in your minds like a soddering iron in fresh lead. Well, baby birds, I shall feed you. Tomorrow I begin training in my new job as an illegal deli worker. You read correctly. I am going to work at a Portuguese deli about two blocks from my house for a guy that has agreed to take on an American without a work permit. It seems the day I have been awaiting for 24 long years has finally come. Tomorrow, I will enter the fast-paced and dynamic world of produce. Praise Allah.
Other Mark Wetzler related news include a surplus of long walks, in which I usually stroll the grassy knolls of Beacon Hill Park and observe the ducks and peacocks that frequent its abundance of ponds and meadows. Then, if I'm feeling particularly daring, I make my way downtown and read a book at Chapters, Canada's version of Barnes and Noble, for a little sit-in-the-comfy-chairs reading time. After that, if there's time, I like to stop by London Drugs and pick up some candy for the walk home. I usually choose Swedish Berries, which are Canada's equivalent to Swedish Fish. Then I amble home slowly and reflect on the day's achievements, the phrase, "too much excitement" usually filling my mind.
So those are some of the current happenings in my life. Last night I drank a liter of Grower's Grapefruit Cider and about three shots of Sambuca and felt ready to take on the world. Today I am lounging around in sweatpants, afraid to even leave the house.
It might be time to get a real job.
-Boosh Clown
Song of the Day: Damn It Feels Good to be a Gangster by The Ghetto Boys
Showing posts with label Canada. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Canada. Show all posts
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Thursday, January 31, 2008
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.
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.
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