We’ve gone international.
Yes, I brought some Fiction Advocate bookmarks to Ottawa with me, and I’m scattering them in strategic places to trick these silly foreigners into clicking through. As soon as you get one international contact, your whole business is international. Right, LA/Ontario International Airport? (Dear LA/Ontario International Airport, You run flights to Tijuana. That’s not “international.” That’s going back to the bar to retrieve your credit card on the morning after. Signedsealeddelivered, Brian.)
Here are some excerpts from my Canadian memoirs.
New Jersey (I flew out of Newark)
If I go on a killing spree here, it will be a totally different governor who rejects my appeal for a stay of execution. How crazy is that?
I can yell “Fuck America,” and no one will care except those robotic Predator drones, operated by the CIA, that fly overhead at all times, in all places. “Oh, I’m sorry, Predator drones! Did I offend your delicate patriotic sensibilities?” Those will be my last words.
Swinging by Accident
Canadians look alike. White. Kind of healthy. There must be a lot of swinging that goes on at Canadian house parties, by accident, when, after a few drinks, it becomes hard to tell if the man you’re taking home is really your husband, or just another Candian guy.
Mindy: “So, your husband… is he tallish, pretty good at sex, freckles on his left thigh?”
Mindy: “Okay. I think I went home with your husband last night. I’m really sorry. The lighting was dim. Plus, you know, we all look the same.”
Barabara: “Don’t worry about it. I still have no idea who I brought home. If anyone is missing a husband with black loafers and garlic breath, tell them to call me.”
Mindy: “Black loafers? We don’t know anyone who wears those. You might have picked up a stray there, Barbara.”