Wednesday, February 18, 2004
An Open Letter Apology to Our Neighbor to the North
Let Me Add my voice to the chorus of Americans apologizing to the great nation of Canada for the indignities inflicted upon it by a man with his hand shoved up the business end of a rubber puppet, for I have also on occasion been less than charitable in my assessment of the sleepy, semisocialist Colossus to the north.
For all the times, in public and private, inebriated on Molson Golden to the point of bladder failure, that I have referred to Canada as America Lite, America, Jr., or recently, given the low-carbohydrate craze sweeping my adopted home state of California, America Ultra, I apologize.
For all the times that I have insinuated that listening to one Michael Myers (a beloved native son of Ontario, which a cursory Google search revealed to be one of approximately six Canadian provinces) natter on in that faux Scottish accent causes me to lose bowel control and soil my trousers, I offer my heartfelt regret. I am nearly certain that Mr. Myers' unpleasant effect on my gastro-intestinal system has nothing to do with his Canadianity.
For all the times that I've suggested that the solution to the Quebec secession problem is to build an enormous wall around the province and allow Anglophone Canadians to hurl baguettes at the French-Canadian separatists until they quickly surrender like their cultural and linguistic forebears, I apologize. That crazy, flat bacon makes a far better projectile and would bring about a rapid and total capitulation, leaving your country intact.
For all the times that I have allowed adultery into my heart because of the naked images of Janet Jones in the March, 1987 issue of Playboy, even though I know that she did not wed the Canadian version of Michael Jordan or Jesus Christ, Wayne "The Great One" Gretzky, until 1988, in a ceremony that was carried live on the Canadian version of television, and even though that technically does not make it adultery in my heart, I say "I'm sorry." I would never think of pleasuring myself to the Canadian Virgin Mary. I also apologize that this analogy has fallen apart, because of course the Virgin Mary was not married to Jesus Christ, and presumably Wayne Gretzky had to engage in sexual intercourse with Janet Jones to produce their many offspring, a coupling that I am certain did not require the assistance of a pharmaceutical erection solution such as Viagra or Cialis, which I believe are made available for free to Canadian citizens by their universal healthcare system. I imagine that a career spent dancing on ice skates did not in any way interfere with the functioning of his male reproductive system. Again, sorry.
For all the times that I have used the Yukon Territory as a cheap punchline, e.g. "[Insert male celebrity whom I've engaged in a petty vendetta] couldn't get laid at a penguin brothel in the goddamn Yukon Territory where all the penguins were dead or nymphomaniacs!" I proffer a heartfelt mea culpa. I'm not even sure there are penguins in Canada, and if there are, they are probably not intelligent enough to start a business, especially one so ethically untenable that patrons could exchange money for intercourse with a dead penguin.
For not being able to finish this apology without indulging in a purely nostalgic self-love interlude with the Janet Jones nude pictorial in the March, 1987 issue of Playboy, I beg of your forgiveness. My bad. But God, she had some cans on her.
Thank you for listening, great nation of Canada, even though we know that your self-effacing sense of humor about the ill-informed American view of your country is so high-developed as to make this enterprise completely unnecessary.
To prove that I'm sincerely contrite, I'm planning a weekend shopping spree in Vancouver. I need a serious bargain on some cargo pants, and your wonderful country is the last place on Earth where the foundering American dollar is strong.