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Amnesia Lane: Halloween Pumpkin Carving: Gateway to Mass Murder

Yeah, it’s almost December and we’re just now putting this into the AMNESIA LANE chute.  Don’t care.  READ IT!  Who wouldn’t want to read about Roode’s pumpkin carving inadequacies?


A Canadian on the 2010 Winter Olympics: AKA Televised Suck

By Roode




So there I am, sitting around drinking and giving children the finger when I get this directive from Tresckow to “Make an article about the Olympics happen.” First off, fuck off. Head writer my ass. You’re not the boss of me; throwing out writing assignments like this is a paying job. I don’t remember getting a pay check or health benefits from this column. No, the only perks from this shit-packed bLOG is that I get to tell women I’m a writer. Sure, that line falls apart either when they figure out it’s for a half assed comedy site or when my wife shows up. Come on, baby, that 70 year old Wal-Mart greeter was hitting on ME.

Secondly, I was going to write an article about the friggin Olympics, anyway. I didn’t need a directive. I’m a fucking writing genius. This brain doesn’t stop! That’s right; mother fucker is always a buzz with literary gold. When people talk about Tresckow’s writing, the conversation is peppered with words like, “hack” and “rhombus.” When the people discuss the literary masterpieces cranked out by me, they use words like “Outstanding,” “Brilliant,” and “police blotter.” I don’t know why they say that last one. I’ve never been in the police blotter. Not by name, anyway.

I never go out without putting this over my face.

Alright, fine. I’ll write an article about the Winter Olympics in Vancouver. Whatever. It’s probably because I’m the only Canadian on staff at the FWTC. I see how it is. Ren’s fucking Irish. I don’t see her writing about bullshit stereotypical Irish fucktardedry.

Shit. That’s a really bad example.

That brings up a good point. I’m Canadian, sure. But, I couldn’t give half a shit pail about the fucking Winter Olympics. Ooooooooooooooo, it’s in Vancouver! Finally, something relevant is happening in Canada. And Western Canada at that. It, obviously, has nothing to do with the CFL. No one gives a flying fuck about that.

The Canadian Football League: Redefining suck since 1903

The wife has been out of town on a “girls’ weekend trip.” I don’t even know what that means. It either has something to do with tampons or many hot, naked games of Twister. Jesus, I have to cut back on the girl on girl porn.

Yeah, that’s never going to happen.

While left to my own devices, nothing ends well. I don’t know how to live by myself, anymore. More importantly, I don’t know how to cook for myself. My time alone usually consists of Dunkin Donuts, cheap pizza, and beer. So, while I’m eating a meal of jelly donut and Sam Adams stew, I’m usually in front of the TV. Like, Ren, I get bored to the point where I randomly flip around the channels. I stopped on NBC to check out the Olympics. What a clusterfuck.

I find this brand of sport a lot more entertaining. Side note: Idaho is the perfect venue for this.

How the hell is anyone supposed to fake excitement during the entire opening ceremony? That fucker is like ten hours long. Every country has to do their little “notice me” walk; no matter how small. You have athletic armies from the US, China, and Russia parading around like they just invaded British Columbia. Then, at the opposite side of the spectrum, there are the nations that had to take up a collection to send one guy to Vancouver. Some poor son-of-a-bitch from a country the size of Deadwood is wandering around holding a laser print out of his country’s flag, trying to pretend he’s a team of 100. Way to crush someone’s ego Olympic committee. You guys are sadistic fucks.

“No, man. I’m it. I’m Ed. Djibouti wants me to just stand here for them.

When the fuck did China start sending half its population to these things? Seriously, Ottawa needs to worry about this. With the centuries of abuse the Western provinces have dealt out to Chinese immigrants (like this and this), Canada’s hands are dirtier than most Americans think. You think our history contains dealing with snow, having Mother England wipe our asses, and an obsession with ham.

This just may be a trap. One day the maple leaf is flying high over the Premier’s office. The next day it will be one of these mothers flapping in the breeze!

Drink it in, fellow Canadians. There’s not even a hammer and sickle on this thing. There’s not ONE Maple leaf, either. That’s insane!

Who do you think is going to help us with that mess? The United States? No. China owns half your debt. Britain? Keep dreaming. All of a sudden the Brits will pretend to only be a friend of a friend. Hey, fuckers, we have pictures of the Queen on our money. I sure as fuck don’t like that, but it should be worth a few SAS troops.

But, this is probably all the UK would send.

I’ve come to the conclusion that winter sports suck a galactic amount of frozen shaft. Hey, look! Skiing! Look! Ice skating! Ooooo, more fucking skiing. Snowboarding? Isn’t that something the Scandinavian countries invented so they can pretend to surf? The luge? That’s skiing/skating inside a soap box racer. Wait, more skiing? Speed skating? Oh fuck, curling? God damn it! Why the fuck did we, as a country, have to bring that to the Olympic table? Now we’re synonymous with polishing ice really really fast in front of a slowly gliding rock. Fucking four square has more athleticism to it.

Pictured: Not one fucking curling broom and these kids should be proud of that!

Am I the only one tired of “uniforms” that show off waaaay too much (as in any) of the male athlete’s junk? You can see the hemispheric divide of their ass cheeks every time they bend over. Stop it! The fucking luge is basically watching some dude and his vacuumed sealed twig and berries sliding down an icy chute. Why the fuck does the camera man insist on zooming in on the junk bulge? That’s bullshit!

Stupid sexy Flanders!

On the other hand, I have no complaints, whatsoever; about the tight, streamlined uniforms the women wear. I’m thinking of getting one for my wife… and her sisters.. And with that last sentence, I have earned myself a Rochambeau. But, that won’t happen until she reads this.

I’m totally OK with Lindsey Vonn wearing a snug, tight, aerodynamic suit while she competes. Material clinging to every sumptuous curve…

She can wear anything she wants.


Now, whether or not I’m watching NBC, all I see is commercials with pseudo Olympic celebrities. Hey, Vicks , your daytime shit doesn’t work. Go ahead and use Apollo Ono in an attempt to sucker us into believing DayQuil miraculously cures him before a big sliding on ice as fast as he can event. If he’s taking anything, it’s not over the counter. I’m not insinuating anything [Read: avoiding lawsuit]. I’m just citing the long and sorted accusations thrown at professional sports, everywhere (cough, cough, baseball). Besides, who the fuck names a little white kid Apollo? With a name like that, you better either be a fucking Greek god or a large black boxer from the 70’s.

Suck it, Ono.

If these fuckers are so wonderful, how come most of us never hear of them between Olympics? You’re telling me that there isn’t a call for year-round double luge events?

There’s no way to watch this and not feel awkward.

Sure, figure skating can be found just about anywhere any time of the year. It doesn’t make it any less gay. If you weren’t bombarded with relentless commercials and news about these snow and ice shufflers would you be able to name three? Don’t lie. You know you couldn’t. If you can, then welcome to the sequined leotard sporting equivalent of World of Warcraft.


Incidentally, I have the urge to wrap my head in duct tape to prevent it from exploding every time I hear a Canadian competitor say “It’s great to be here in Canada.” Asshat, you fucking LIVE in Canada. Guess where you’re going to be after the games? Canada! “It’s great to be in Vancouver?” No it’s not, you fucking liar. Outside of Da Vinci’s Inquest, Vancouver has nothing to offer.  Unless you count closed circuit television cameras to spy on the populous and a strong prostitution trade.

Yeah, I stole the “Wrap my head in duct tape” line from Glenn Beck. It’s the only useful thing I’ve ever gotten from him.

Editor’s Note: While searching for images of “duct taped heads” the research department kept running across pics of the cat that was duct taped in Philadelphia last September. Nothing would please FWTC more than to find the sick fucker that did this and duct tape his balls (you know it has to be a dumbshit teen aged guy). Do two wrongs make a right? Yes, yes they do.

Perhaps the most annoying thing about the Olympics is the fact that they’re being held in Canada. I don’t know if it has the same effect in other countries (haven’t noticed it in the US), but for some shit grinning reason, you people can’t pass a Canadian without saying something like, “How ‘bout those winter games?” What? Why? Oh, I get it, it’s because it’s all about skiing and hockey, right? Presumably, the Olympics are the only thing Canadians have to look forward to. OK, the second statement may be true. It’s fucking Canada. But, guess what, not every fucking Canadian gives a beaver’s ass about this shit. I’m Canadian, but I also have US citizenship. That means, I have the athletic skills to compete in snow-based sports, but I’d rather drink and watch Sons of Anarchy.

I had a bet with Ren that I could work SOA into this article, somehow. I win, you blond elf. You owe me a twenty. 


I would have found a way to drop SOA into the article. I have a thing for Maggie Siff.



Halloween Pumpkin Carving: Gateway to Mass Murder

By Roode

Kids love Halloween. It’s the one time of year they can get free candy that doesn’t involve creepy old men in bathrobes. Adults love it, because it’s the one time of they year that dressing up like Tyra Banks isn’t exclusively for drag queens.

Remember when Jamie Fox was funny? Of course you don’t.

I don’t dress up. I don’t trick or treat. I don’t have kids so I’m not forced to pretend I give a shit. This may surprise some of you, but I’m not a happy go lucky holiday celebrating person. I wouldn’t put up that fucking Christmas tree if I didn’t get a guilt trip from the wife each and every “have to buy new strings of lights because the ones from last Christmas never fucking work” year. I suggested we just forgo the tree one year. It was like I proposed we put on cleats and go kitten stomping.

My bags are always packed for the latest guilt trip provided by The Wife Travel Agency.

Last weekend I hung out with Ren. I was bored and sober. I knew that belligerent Irish drunk had booze. I had wifey in tow for a low key Saturday evening. Adel was out of town making plans for her wedding (that’s right kids- more on that another time) and who the hell knows what Tresckow was doing. Maybe storming Poland?

Tank rental is surprising affordable.

I was quite happy to sit there, watch TV, and suck down Guinness. The hens were yapping in another room and Commando was on TV. Awesome! Beer, violence, and HDTV. I defy you to come up with a better combination. Defy you, I say!

Somewhere around the part when Schwarzenegger is slaughtering the island army lead by Nick Tortelli Ren had the most horrible idea since CNN’s coverage of the Michael Jackson funeral. “Hey! Let’s make Jack O’Lanterns.” Bitch.
Sure, I protested. You married guys out there know resistance is futile. Over the years my “Fuck it! Whatever!” switch developed a hair trigger. I learned about three years into married bliss that it’s the path of least resistance that gets you laid. So, when someone has a fucktarded idea like this and the wife is into it, fuck it. I’m as powerless as Valtrex is on TilaTequila.

This fucker is pretty much always set to “on.”
I knew I was in for a rocket ship to a ball taggingly painful night when it took the girls 30 minutes to find the right pumpkins. It was the like the Goldilocks of pumpkin searching. This one is too small. This one has too many bumps. This one has a funny looking stem… damn it! At this point I didn’t give a shit if the son-of-a-bitch was oozing blood while demonic voices chanted an ode to Satan. Why the fuck can’t women find ANYTHING in under half an hour? Holy yeti piss, the fucker’s going to end up a rotting corpse on the stoop anyway.

Pictured: Good investment.

After buying four medium sized pumpkins (four, because the odds of fucking up are excellent when you’ve been drinking since 3) we carted the orange bastards back to the house. First off, let me say it’s completely fucking ridiculous the amount of goddamn work you have to put in just to cut the top off. Then, there’s a shitload of stringy, gag reflex slapping innards that have to be scooped out. This shit looks, feels, and acts wrong. Not only does it feel like goopy, stringy shit from a camel with diarrhea, it’s nye impossible to keep it in one place. If you’re lucky, it just falls on the floor like so much spaghetti of the damned. If you’re not so lucky, it can find its way into your pants. Don’t fucking give me that look. It happens.

Look at this putrid, stringy mess and tell me you don’t want to blow chunks.

It’s not over yet. Oh no, there’s more labor intensive bullshit waiting to play ping pong with your dangly parts. Now you have to scrape the meat of the friggin thing. There’s nothing remotely appealing about that phrase. Scrape the meat? That conjures up all sorts of fucked up Donner Partyimages.


Hold on! Before you start scraping chunks of pumpkin meat, you need to know two things; 1) No kitchen utensil in the known world is built for this and 2) if you take too much out the whole fucking thing will collapse. Who knew this was a science?

I don’t know, Bill. Maybe there is no cure for Jack O’Lantern carving rage.

Of course, my wife is a friggin genius with this shit. She’s the artsy crafty one. I’m the one that gets pissed off and dynamites random things in nature. Ren, the dumbass that came up with the idea, redefined suck. She bought one of those stencils that is supposed to help you carve designs. That fucker was too complicated for a drunken Mick. It didn’t end well.

After giving up on ever stenciling this thing right, she decided to carve the fucker with a hammer.

Well, that gourd was out of commission. Mine, on the other hand, was still in the race. Sure, it frustrated me a little…

The fucker had it coming.

This sucks! Who started this butt fucking tradition anyway? Liquored up, pissed off people shouldn’t be asked to hack the almighty shit out of produce. That’s how Bundy got started.


After another (4) beer, I went back to the taunting, round poop stain. OK, I just stabbed it a few times. It’s fixable. I’ll just get to work cutting out the nose and smile. This shit has to be getting me brownie points with the wife, right? RIGHT? Besides, I know I can do better than Ren’s second attempt.

I’ve never seen a Jack O’Lantern with Downs Syndrome before.

I decided, then and there, that I would not be defeated by a piece of fruit… or vegetable… whatever. With each slip of the knife and fucked up tooth, I started to fantasize about setting fire to all its smug ass brethren. All of a sudden I understood punkin chunkin. Its not a bunch of drooling momma’s boys who smell like a mix of body odor and Red Bull (not exclusively, anyway). It was mankind’s way of getting back at those sack lickers.

This may have cost more money and time than any sane person would invest,
but, it must be therapeutic to see that mother launched into the air and disintegrate on impact.

When the dust settled, there were three Jack O’Lanterns. Mine looked like it was married to Ike Turner. Ren’s did an amazing Sling Bladeimpersonation. My wife’s… that’s not important. Shut up!

One of these days she’s going to fuck SOMETHING up and I’ll be there to see it.

If the night wasn’t rage inducing enough, this Jack O’Cock Knocker saved the best for last. As soon as I picked it up to carry outside the asshole started to cave in. Remember that whole don’t scrape too much of the meat off thing? Well, guess what? I didn’t fucking pay attention to that at all. The face started collapsing faster than Michael Jackson’s cosmetic surgery (yes, two MJ references in one article. I’m not proud).

Stick a candle in his skull and it’s the spitting image of my imploding Jack O’Lantern.

It was over. The damn thing didn’t even stay together long enough for me to make it out the door. I snapped. To quote a great philosopher, “That’s all I can stands and I can’t stands no more!”

Wise beyond his years.

I bellowed “Fuck you gourd!” OK, so it was a bit loud and I’m pretty sure someone called the cops, but I didn’t give a shit. This sadistic orange fuck has toyed with me for too long! I let it drop to the ground and I nailed the mocking tea bagger in the mouth. That’s right, pumpkins everywhere can eat me. It’s on now. Every assclown pumpkin I find will die. I hereby declare my plan for pumpkin cleansing! Pumpkins, watch your backs (wherever the fuck your “backs” are). It’s war now!

He was, but the first to fall!

A Half Assed Alcoholic’s Guide to Invading Canada

by, Ren-

You know where Canada is, right? It’s that giant wasteland north of Montana where they try to pass curling off as a sport and ham as some sort of exotic bacon. Yeah, that maple leaf flag place with pictures of the Queen on their money. It also happens to be where Roode is from. Yuppers, Roode is Canuckian. We all knew there was something wrong with him. I mean other than the whole rage-a-holic who sneaks into the women’s bathroom categorizing cartoon women he would lay watercolor pipe to thing.

The janitorial version of hockey, I guess. Next, the sawdust on puke competition.

Before some pug nuts accuses me of being anti-Canada and writing hate speech, let me set everyone straight. I like Canada. I’ve visited often. Some of my best friends hail from the Great White North. In fact, I love how some of Canada’s citizens celebrate their patriotism.

I’m an alcohol enthusiast. I dare say I can give Tresckow a run for his money; which is to say drink his Eliza Dushku obsessed ass under the table. Sure, he drinks a bottle of bourbon while watching Hell’s Kitchen. That’s kid stuff. My people refer to whiskey as “water.” You got it, my family is right off the potato boat. My Irish ancestors invented the bar fight, alcohol poisoning, and booze fueled domestic abuse. In short, Momma can drink like a champ. So, why not exercise my drinking muscles once in a while? Hey, I drink responsibly. I always cut myself off when I lose consciousness.

No, this isn’t me. I don’t drink shitty beer and I’m a fuckload cuter.

Not too long ago, my merry little band decided to go bar hopping. It’s the tried and true tradition of crashing a bar, drinking to the point of arguing with one of the bar stools, then moving on to the next pub before the cops arrive. It’s never a good idea to wing your itinerary. To hedge your bets, you really should plot out your drunken flight path with Google maps. It just helps avoid the inevitable geographical catastrophe. What about your cell phone’s GPS? Forget it. You can barely dial drunk, let alone use any application that requires more than just yelling at the phone.

And this is just using the key word “bars.”

Fridays bring out the worst in drunks. Especially if that drunk is a booze swilling, obscenity spouting, potato farming Mick. Hey, I can say that shit. I’m Irish. Not just Irish, but NORTHERN Irish. It’s not a racial slur if you’re talking about your own people. Your own smashed, whiskey gulping, fighting mad drunk people. Éirinn go Brách! Póg mo thóin!

We’re not exactly in the cradle of civilization over here. It’s an arctic tundra during the fall, winter, and spring and a sadistic Easy Bake Oven in the summer. As with most of this part of the country, civilization is completely spread out. If what you want isn’t in the town you’re in, you’re pretty much shit out of luck. You’re going to have to sit there and live without a Snuggie. If you can call that living. Or, you can suck it up and drive the two hours to the next town with a fully operational Bed Bath and Beyond.

Yes, I know this is just a backwards, terry cloth version of a Jedi’s robe
and it just might be the most ridiculous “As Seen On TV” product known to man.
Don’t ask a girl to explain. I just fucking want one!

A good, hardcore pub crawl in this area is only for the dedicated. I can completely use up all the bars worth going to in one city with ease. It’ll take your professional bar hopper no time to vanquish the worthwhile watering holes. Where do you go from there? You take your wasted show on the road. That’s precisely what we did.

Take that shit on the road!

Someone had the brilliant idea to just “head north.” Why not? Like I said, everything in this God forsaken state is a hundred miles away from everything else. Bars (the acceptable ones, anyway) tend to cluster in decent sized towns and cities. I’ve learned to keep the fuck out of back road shit holes with a flickering sign that simply reads “BAR.” I’m way too girlie, have too many teeth, and 200 pounds too light for syphilis rampant road houses.

Sorry, dude. Still no deal.

The only one of us not investing in a future case of Sclerosis of the Liver was the designated driver. That poor son-of-a-bitch had to drive our belligerent alcohol soaked asses from bar to bar. Before you start feeling too sorry for him, take this into consideration: 1) He’s one of those Canadian people, 2) he got to watch a couple of the girls play a drunken game of “make out and giggle,” and 3) I’m pretty sure I let him cop a feel a few times. That last part is a little hazy.

Bar by bar we worked our way North, hitting a string of towns and the only “city” in that area, Great Falls. Being nice and liquored up, it was decided that the trek North shall continue! Hey, our DD knows a pretty awesome bar a little further North. We totally should go! Fuck yeah! NORTH! BAR! GO!

Point that arrow thingy to N and move out!

This is when it all gets a little muddy. I remember a strip club that had some pretty rock’n wings. I want to say one of the girls ended up dry humping the stripper pole on stage (Jesus, I hope it wasn’t me). Someone brought a monkey, because the monkey knocked over the drink cart. What I clearly remember is our DD getting obliterated on shots of grain and Captain Morgan. Alright, whatever. So we’ll have to find a place to crash and sleep it off. After kindly turning down an offer for shelter from a nice man in a trench coat and sunglasses, we all decided to get a hotel room, collapse, and each engage in our own, personal vomiting ritual.

Post a sign all you want, society. I’m still going to do the Technicolor yawn in your bushes.

As pleasant as it may be to pack 5 people who smell like stale alcohol, vomit, and vanilla cupcakes (that one has me baffled), the first thing you want to do when you rejoin the world of the living is get the holy fuck out of that room and get some fresh air. Okay, I did take a few quick seconds to take a couple cell pics of the rest of my party in strange, passed out positions. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?Having no recollection of where we were, what hotel we were in, or why my underwear was now blue instead of green (I could have sworn I put on green undies before this whole thing began), I stumbled out of the building. Thank God. Finally, somewhere that doesn’t smell like a bus station in Belfast. Sun? WTF? Oh yea, I have a hangover. I scanned the area looking for someplace to get a few dozen cups of black coffee and more whiskey (hair of the dog and all). My poor eyes were just slits. They hated the sun too.

The sun is such a dick when you have a soul crushing hangover.

I started walking around looking for a combination Starbucks-liquor store. Hey. There sure are a lot of cars with Canadian license plates. Damn Canucks, always coming to this state, eating our food, breathing our air… Damn, Alberta? Most of the tags were from Alberta. What, is there some sort of Albertan invasion of Montana? Dude, take it.

I noticed something else that seemed strange to me. The speed limits in this town are absurdly high.

Holy vehicular homicide, Batman!

Oh, wait. The sign continues. Hmm, there is more writing under the numbers. Shit, I hate lowering my head. My eyeballs hurt. My neck hurts. If it was important it would be in my line of sight. Holding my chin with my hand, I slowly lower my entire head, using the least amount of neck power possible. I have no doubt that I looked like a little blonde mental case. This shit better be worth it.

KM/H? Canadian car tags? Alberta? The smell of cooked ham on pizza? Did I hear someone say “Aboot?” Aboot? Eh? Alright, let me do the math. Ugh, my head. No. Concentrate. Whose thong is this in my pocket? STOP! THINK. KM/H. Canadian tags. “Aboot.” This all sounds familiar. God, I want a slice of pizza. Maybe one with Canadian bac….. FUCK! It can’t be! How the shit did this happen.

I thought the US flag looked strange. It’s all maple leafy…

We went North, alright. The damn hoser DD did know of a kick ass place to party. He just left out the part about crossing international borders. Canada? The four of us from a country that’s had a flag for more than 50 years were a might concerned. Not so much about Canada; I mean who’s concerned about Canada? It was more about re-entering the United States and dealing with border security, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and the fun time guys in Homeland Security. Did I mention none of us had our passports? I should have mentioned that none of us had our passports. Who the fuck takes their passport along when going on a bar crawl? Apparently, I should have. Come on. We managed to get into Canada without papers. Five sloppy drunks drove over the border without so much of a “Hey there,hi there, ho there, Eh.” How hard will it be to slip back over?


Canada is the roach motel of North American countries. I’m not comparing the nation to a poisonous roach infested trap, so don’t get your panties in a bunch, Canada. It’s more like Americans can enter, but they can’t leave sort of thing. Obviously, no one gives a flying fuck who enters Canada. But, when you want to turn around and drive the other way, there’s a problem. You see, the US is all bent out of shape about terrorism and terrorists sneaking past the border from Canada and doing harm unto us. Hey, that’s a legitimate concern. The problem is that its nyeim-fucking-possible to secure a 3,142 mile long border. In the good old days, if you lived close enough, you could pop into Canada and back, no questions asked. Today, fuck you! You’re a terrorist until we can prove otherwise. I sure as shit fit the profile being 5′ 1″ 100 pounds, pale, and blonde. I’m part of the little known Al Qaeda cell made up completely of angry Mick leftovers from the PIRA (IRA to you slaves of movie pop culture).

But, when the Irish found out that whiskey and Guinness were forbidden by religious law, they promptly gave everyone the finger and went to the nearest pub.

After the last of us came to, we decided to make a break for it. Our Canadian DD couldn’t remember exactly how we came in. It seemed like every secondary road was blocked from the Alberta side. Awesome! They’re just waving people through! We might just pull this off!


Before I knew it, a couple of officers from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police knocked on our window. Our ship was sunk. We were caught. Maybe it was because the car reeked of vomit and Irish Car Bombs. Maybe it was because I said the phrase “Irish Car Bombs.” Whatever it was, the Horsemen nabbed us and impounded the car. Why? Fucking racial profiling, man!

Once again, four out of the five of our little posse came from the States. Out of that four, exactly ZERO could offer any sort of paper work to the RCMP, let alone US border patrol. Our state drivers licenses were useless. My attempt to seduce my way out of Canadian custody fell flat. Great. Now I have self-esteem issues to boot. Fucking Mounties.

For the record, we were “detained” not arrested. There’s a mile of difference. Being arrested involves jail and a cavity search. Being detained entails a lot of retarded questioning, bad coffee, and constantly reaffirming that when you said “Irish Car Bomb” you meant the damn drink.

Don’t you Sasquatches mix drinks?

It was a chicken and the egg routine. In order to get past the border, we needed our passports. In order to get our passports, we needed to get past the border. Our options were:

  1. Have someone mail them to us while we wait in Calgary, in custody.
  2. Get shipped to the US Embassy in Ottawa.
  3. Have someone drive to the border checkpoint and bring them to us.
  4. Undertake a Steve McQueen type “Great Escape.”

We didn’t have enough shovels or Charles Bronson to complete number 4. Number 1 and 2 would just take us deeper into Canada; the OPPOSITE direction we needed to go. Not to mention staying longer than humanly possible. Number 3 seemed the most possible. I knew precisely who to recruit. My big brother! That’s it! He lives where this whole carnival of dipshittery began. That was only a mere… 1… 2… 4… 6 hours away! That’s practically down the road.

After some convincing, pleading, and threatening to tell everyone that he secretly watches iCarly when no one’s around (oops), he reluctantly agreed. It took him over an hour to locate and secure all four of the needed passports. A friend of his tagged along for the ride to watch the hilarity ensue. Joke’s on that asshole. He doesn’t have a passport, so the border patrol made him wait on the US side while my brother drove through. HA!

I was free! Even though, I’m damn sure I was entered in some sort of Albertian-Canadian-Canuckian watch list.

I’m sorry, Ms. Ren. You seem to be a person of interest…

I suppose I should be grateful that it was the RCMP that kicked up a fuss and not Homeland Security. I’m not sure I could take a stint in Gitmo. I guess I should be grateful that my brother made a 12 hour round trip to bail his little sister out of an international bind. But, dude, some of those strippers at the club were HOT!