Welcome to Canada

Border Runs

If you don’t know yet, I live in Sarnia Ontario, Canada (for those who don’t know where Ontario is) which boarders Port Huron, Michigan. There is the St. Clair River that divides us from our American neighbors. And we have two bridges, and ferry down south.

You can get a Nexus pass which is for frequent drivers so they can use the quicker Nexus lane. What really pisses off is when there is a long lineup and people try to bud in. My dad won’t give them an inch. If you do have a Nexus pass you put on your four ways to let everyone know. Then some asshole just thinks hey I will just skip everyone else too.

I know two custom officers that like to mess with people. Kind of like in Super Troopers. There is the meow game where you say meow as many times as possible. For example, when they mean “now” they say “meow”. Such as “can I have your passport meow?” One funny custom guy said “don’t look at me like that” and it startled me and I said I wasn’t. He was joking.

So years ago out of boredom I decided to cross the bridge and check out the mall. I got into the shortest line but it was still about a 20 minute wait. Everything was going smoothly until I noticed that they had a German Sheppard. As soon as I saw it, fear overcame my entire body, I was literally shaking.

It was the most intense and scariest moment of my life because I usually keep a small bag of weed, a pipe and a lighter in my cargo pants pocket. They started going along the rows of cars with the drug sniffing dog.

So I slowly checked my pockets and I was so relieved to find them empty. Actually I had a McDonald’s coupon. I was still a little nervous as the dog came by. All I wanted to do was give the biggest boot to the dog’s face because he suddenly stopped by my car. Just then I noticed that I had some ashes and small bits on the floor.

The officers immediately started interrogating me like I was a fucking terrorist. They were all like “whose car is this? Where are you going? Where is the weed? Why are you so nervous?” And I was like “I’m headed to the mall, this is my brother’s and my car. I don’t have any weed, but sometimes my brother leaves roaches in the ash tray. And I’m not nervous!” I was nervous.

The guy was yelling at me, “This is your last chance, tell me where the weed is.” So they searched my entire car while I had to fill out some forms and tests. They hated me, they were looking at me like I dealt crack.

I lied and I told them that the last time I smoked was years ago. And they were still like “nice hemp necklace!” I got a little scared when I had to rub my hands against this pad and I was about ready to give the most emotional heart to heart as to why I smoke weed.

But when they couldn’t find anything, they simply let me go. When it was all done and over with I realized how insane it is that marijuana is illegal. Just replace the word weed to cigarettes or vodka and you’ll know how I feel.

Years later my idiot brown friend smuggled weed from the States back into Canada. Great idea, that’s worth it. They totally racial profile brown people. Personally I can get weed pretty much anytime I feel like it. But I like to buy a lot each time to save the hassle.

He also tried to score weed at the hemp shop. Obviously they smoke weed but it’s not going to happen. I did buy a pipe for some underagers one time. I hope they got really high. It was my good deed of the day. 

If I was going to smuggle drugs over the river I’d get an old couple into the heist. They would drive an RV and load it up with stuff you’d normally bring if you were going to Vegas or wherever. Then I’d hide the narcotics in the Frosted Flakes, medicine or Grammy’s tampons. If old women still use tampons.

Or I would get a Nexus pass and regularly play soccer or work or make up something as to why I’m going to the States all of the time. Or maybe I’d take my chances on the ferry.

If you think gas is high in the States then try Canada. And it keeps going up and there’s nothing else to do except get a hybrid. In fact people will go over to the States just to fill up.

I don’t know why the price of gas fluctuates. Just keep it the same for at least a week at a time and save the headaches. There must be some evil underground council that decides the price for all of the gas stations.

The cool part of the U.S. is that you can buy beer anywhere, anytime for real cheap. So when the beer stores are closed and we want to get drunk that very night, we do a border run.

On the news I heard in the middle of winter some guy put on some scuba gear and put some coke in a waterproof container. He swam across the river in five in the morning and someone must have seen him and alerted the police. Now I forgot where he was going. I hope for his sake he was headed to Canada. Otherwise he’ll be sucking dick for a long fucking time.

The Mail

Extra Extra: Gregera Kicks Ass

I’m not sure how much a mailperson makes but my dream job would be a mailman living in Florida. It would be awesome just walking around in nice weather, waving to friendly old people as you pass by and listening to Tina Turner on my Ipod. “You’re my private dancer…”

I already walk around my town anyway. It’s fun. People spot me all of the time all over my city of Sarnia. Like I’m Waldo. And they wonder what I do or go exactly. Well I have missions. Yesterday my mission was to get stoned, go to Taco Bell and check out movies at the new movie store.

Today my mission was to get a new drivers license and health card. I must have picked the best possible time to go because my number was up next and it took me a whole three minutes to wait. And I didn’t realize that they do both at the same time.

My signature was God awful and I went over the box. It’s just that I don’t write anymore and I have become used to using the computer. And I have become completely dependent on spell check.  I just hope my picture isn’t as ugly as my former picture. And I wasn’t allowed to smile.

Anyway, I would prefer to go for jogs but I’m only 31 years young and have already fucked up my knees from various reasons. Mainly because I lifted too much weight at the gym. So be careful. Tomorrow my mission might me to go to the dollar store or defeat the manicore in his lair on Mitton Street.

But I’m getting sick of my city. I loved living in London because there’s more to do, places to go and bars to get my drink on. And more shopping. Yes, I’m very metro. If it wasn’t for my family I would move to bigger city. Like L.A. and become an actor. I just don’t know anything about immigration laws and such.

If I could get my mom’s car, I would love to drive to Toronto in nice weather, maybe to see my college roommate and friends and go on an adventure all over the place. Like going to Little China and buying whale teeth and pirated movies and video games on the black market. I just hope I don’t wake up in some alley with one of my kidneys removed. I’m saving it to sell so I have enough money to buy a karaoke machine.

I used to be an excellent paperboy so I know my stuff. I delivered for the Sarnia Observer. I joined the paperperson career a little too late. Most paperboys are usually in grade five or so. I became one in grade nine. Yes, I was a high school paperboy up until grade eleven.  

I used to play the Paperboy on the Nintendo. Who would have thought that a game where you deliver newspapers would be so much fun? I don’t think Garbage Man or Milkman would be as good. So you toss papers at people’s homes and avoid bees and drunks.

Imagine you could do that in real life where you don’t give a shit if you smash people’s windows. I also wonder why someone would get their dog to retrieve the paper when it gets slob all over it. It’s a few feet, get it yourself lazy.

Anyway, people liked me because I was polite and delivered on time. Even on Saturday mornings. The former paperboy wasn’t quite so. For example one household had paid him months in advance even though you’re not supposed to do that. So he quits and got away with like a $50. The Observer compensated.

I wish I had the job earlier because that three bucks a day would go a long way as a kid. At the time my allowance was pretty much three bucks a week and I got only five bucks for mowing the lawn. I would buy stuff such as trading cards, cheap video games, candy and ministicks to name a few. Now I get $50 a week for doing next to nothing.

I had the perfect route. I delivered to all of my neighbors, and my own parents, around a loop. It took me only like ten minutes and I listened to my handheld cassette player. I had a couple of mixed tapes, some that I recorded off the radio. “Yes, it’s the Abercrombie and Fitch song! I better hurry up.”

All my neighbors were friendly and gave me good tips. Except for one dick who didn’t like me cutting across his lawn. Yes, his precious lawn. Its not like I’m ruining it or anything. After all he has to cut it. “You better stay the fuck off my lawn. I just got it fertilized asshole.”

However I broke my leg playing hockey and had a cast on for five long months. The good part of it was that I actually had worker insurance. So my friend covered for me and I got free money. The bad part was the cast was itchy as fuck.

The Observer has a few sections. It used to come with its own TV guide. It came in handy by knowing what the week had in store. So I could find out the time of any movies or shows. “What’s this? Judge Dread is on Friday at 8:00pm. I better keep my Friday night open. And a Golden Girls marathon! Fucking eh.”

The entertainment section is entertaining but I rather just go online and catch up on my gossip. And I don’t like the Observer’s critics and their reviews. They will give a movie like Anchorman 2 two stars. Sure it wasn’t as good as the first one and was a little racist, but it was far better than the other choices. And my friend Kevin called me Brick.

I don’t know why, but my mom regularly checks the obituaries. So you find out who croaked. When I die, I want a full front page dedicated to me, of me riding a unicorn. You also see birthdays and special occasions. Like when some old dude lived to be over a century, some ugly people get married or when Kevin became a doctor. And ladies, he’s single.

The local news is so boring. Except when something horrible or sensational happens. Like if in Chemical Valley some unfortunate soul falls off the rail 200 feet to his death. I realize they try to show positive things. Like some kid made the tallest snowman. In fact my mom was in the paper a long time ago when she worked in the hospital.

I love playing sports, but I don’t need to know that the Sting hockey team lost another game or know the results of a stupid lacrosse match. But we still have a picture of my brother playing soccer when he was a lad. He was the athlete, I was the nice one.

I could never play any of the word games like crossword puzzles, sudoku or word searches. I don’t have any sort of vocabulary and I get tired of erasing my sudoku numbers. And word searches are something you do in elementary school. Like when you have a bible word search. “Yes, I found the holy grail. And yes I found the word shit.”

And of course there is the comic strip section. My mom likes Zits. My dad likes the Broons. And I like Garfield. Oh Garfield, you’re a cat, you should be eating Friskies, not lasagna. I wonder if he takes catnip to calm his nerves or take shits in a litter box. And why does he hate Mondays so much. He doesn’t have a job or anything. Like me.

However the mailman is a dying breed. Now people get their news online or on the television. And people pay bills and whatnot also online. So I hear on the news, haha, that in the near future people will have to go to the mail drop off thing to pick it up their mail. That would suck.

And I don’t know who would deliver the flyers then? I might miss out on a sale at Leons. Of course the only mail I get is a Christmas card from the Wilson family, a birthday card from my godmother and free trips to Mexico. But I never heard back from Paul McCarthy or Cher.

My Dad is Going to Kill Me

The Garage Door Accident

I have done so many idiotic things in my life. I have been called Brick on three separate occasions. But I already wrote a blog about my intelligence. And how I don’t give a fuck. The weird thing was I used to be really good at math in elementary school. Now I can barely count my change.

And yet I have also been called a smart guy by people I just met. Such as when I was chatting with some girl on the train or playing poker with some people. I guess they didn’t really get to know me.  If I only don’t say anything, people would assume I’m alright. But I still do. Like when I talk about video games, weed or my favorite parts in movies.

Even my aunt thought some of my blogs were clever. So naturally my mom wants to know what I have been writing all of these years. But I won’t tell her because I write about religion, doing drugs and getting wasted. And I don’t think my mom would appreciate my humor.

And I promised my mom that I stopped smoking the ganja. And when see found my pipe and a bag of weed under my bed I told her not to throw it out. Please. She gives me some excuse why she was under my bed. Like she was going to vacuum under my bed.

I remember my first day at college I brought a small safe with my shrooms and weed. My dad somehow found the key and opened it so he could put more stuff in it. Or that’s what he said. So he finds the illegal drugs and we had a discussion. I told him I would be careful and that would he rather me get drunk instead?

And my mom thinks weed is a drug and is illegal and is therefore wrong. And I could go to jail. “I won’t allow that filth in my house.” Yes the cops are just going to randomly search my room with a hunch and arrest me for possession of half quarter of marijuana.

They would be like “well Johnson, that’s one more criminal off the streets.” “Yes, Tim, no more stoner smoking weed behind the church, eating starburst and then going home to watch South Park.” “Ha! South Park. They’re all the same.” “Yes, and now lets get some donuts.” “I like the brown ones.” (that was a classic line from my brown friend about brown popsicles.)

In fact I don’t tell my mom funny stories anymore because she uses it against me. For example I was walking home from a friend’s place and these two punk kids started to make fun of me. One said “who the fuck are you?” And I responded with “Greg, who the fuck are you?” Then they made fun of my name and called me a drunk. I called them fags. So he pushed me and I split back to my buddies place and they ran away.

So I told my parents because I thought it was funny. My dad said to go for the weaker one and go for his nose. My mom just flipped. And now my mom doesn’t like me walking after ten. I’m an idiot. This happens all of the fucking time.

Since I don’t believe in the good Lord, I blame fate. Oh damn you fate, why me? My life is like the movie a Series of Unfortunate Events. There are so many minor things that have made such a dramatic impact on my life. If only my time machine actually worked.

So I just got my first parking ticket. I didn’t even see it on the dashboard until my mom informed me about it. I look at the street name and realize it was when I parked downtown. There was a lot of snow so I couldn’t see the parking lines and I guess if there was a sign then I didn’t see it.

The worst part was that I was in and out of the store for only five minutes. So it just happened to be that some meter maid just so happened be around and just so happened that meter maid gave me the ticket. I think she was waiting for a bust. I hope they hate their job. I mean would you enjoy being a prick and cost people money for parking ten minutes longer on a two hour parking spot?

It’s not like they’re getting any of the money like they’re on commission. Would their boss be like “well my asshole meter maid, you only issued a dozen tickets today? I want you to screw more people. If they’re an inch over the line, give them a $2,000 ticket.”

Luckily it was my first ticket and was only thirty bucks; so my mom wasn’t that upset. However I could have done a lot with those thirty bucks. Like buy some Corona or bet on some race horses.

Then the next day I broke our garage door. Yes, I forgot to open the garage door and reversed my mom’s car right into it. And I’m like fuck me. Fuck me hard. It was pretty bad.

I freak out and tell my mom. She really freaked out. I said “I can’t take this; I’m going for a walk.” I felt horrible and was thinking how much this is going to cost. I thought maybe ten grand. And my dad is going to kill me. Oh shit.

The worst part is it didn’t have to happen. First off, I was going to go to the mall and Burger King to get a junior whopper, onion rings with zesty sauce and mozza sticks. If only I stayed home ate some delicious Kraft dinner instead.

I was going to walk to the mall but it was a little chilly out so my mom said I could take her car. It just so happened to snow so my mom parked in the garage. And my mom asked if I needed her help backing out of the garage so I don’t scratch my dad’s jaguar. I said no. The whole time I didn’t want to scratch my dad’s jaguar and was looking at it and then bang.

So I’m walking and thinking of excuses and playing the blame game. Like I never asked to be born. Or that I don’t have a good memory. “Ya, dad. I did it on purpose. I thought hey, lets drive right through the garage door.”

So while I was gone, my mom called my dad. And yes, he was pissed off. Very pissed off. He was furious. My dad was going to reduce my allowance to only $20 and not let me drive the car for two whole months. But after a while he cooled down.

They just so happened to find my walking down the street and picked me up. Oh shit, its time for some serious acting. My dad was still mad but shit happens. He of course once had the SUV halfway out the garage and wasn’t thinking when he opened the trunk to put the hockey bag in and hit the garage door.

He estimated the replacement to cost $3,000. And it was. The garage door people showed up right away and they fixed the huge dent and my dad taped the glass windows. Good, so now punk kids won’t steal shit from our garage or the jag won’t get scratched by snow, ice and shit.

But three grand? That’s a Florida trip right there. And that would take all of my mom’s frugal shopping and clipping coupons to make up for it. Oh what I could do with that money? However I still get the car and I’m sure I will get my $50 allowance again. Or there goes my fast food addiction.

The Roast of My College Roommates

Stewie

My first year as Western University was awesome. I lived in a new dorm where you and three other roomies share a common room and kitchen. With cable! My whole hallway took the same classes and we all hung out and hit the bars together. And I was using and dealing weed and mushrooms. Very trippy. Very fun.

My roommates and everybody were cool but the life of the party was Stewie. I came a day later and thought that was his real name. Apparently he cooked some stew or soup and that became his nickname. His real name was Jason. If you care. And we called my brown roomy Brown Town.

As I said, he was a big fat party animal. Just like Pluto. He was hilarious. Everyone loved getting high with him. Especially the ladies. Yes the ladies loved him but he wasn’t getting any action. It might be that all of the chicks were just way too hot and there were not really any homely or other fat girls.

So everyone was putting up posters and we both had Scar Face posters. What an awesome movie; the end is the best. Yes we had the same taste in movies and T.V. But he loved wrestling. I thought it was gay. And he called one of my favorite shows Kids in the Hall gay. Okay, the one guy is flaming. But I told him he has to see their movie Brain Candy. He loved it.

My beef with Stew was that he had shitty taste in music. Like Nickelback or Edwin. He especially played a lot of Creed, really loud. The guy can’t sing worth shit and all of his songs are about is Jesus. “We arms wide open…”

My French Roommate

My second year at college I lucked out and got my own room again. Good thing because I would hate to share a room with another dude. I don’t know how that would work. I mean do you go to go to sleep at the same time. “Goodnight Greg.” “Goodnight frog. Hey frog, do you listen to French rock music? Oh never mind. Good night.”

In the first semester this French foreign exchange student also had his own room next to mine and we shared a bathroom. I don’t know if he put all of his toiletries back in his room each time he used them because I never seen any of his soap or shampoo in the bathroom. I hope he wasn’t using mine. He never even drank our water. I mean we have crisp fresh water. I guess he is used to his piss poor Paris sewer water.

He spoke English well. Even better than me. I mean even better than I. But we never really had an actual conversation. Classes were a breeze and I had them on Monday through to Wednesday. So I had a huge fucking long weekend. The problem was everyone in my hall was 18. Sure I bought everyone booze and we played a lot of drinking games but I had nobody to go to the bars with me.  Except Frenchy.

So I went to the bar alone on a Wednesday to get my drink on. And I ran into him. He was with his other foreign friends. I said hi and he said hi but he didn’t even introduce me to them. So a few weeks later I saw him again and he barely acknowledged me. So I thought screw it be a foreign asshole. Go back to France, wear a beret and drink your wine.

Later on I was trying to get up early and hit the snooze button two times. I didn’t even know he could hear it. But I woke him up. Okay my bad. But all he had to do is ask me to just get up the first time my alarm goes off. No he came over and was totally pissed off and told me to “turn it off, I’m not going to say it again.” And that was the last time we ever spoke.

The next semester there was this Russian student that sounded British for some reason. He was very well mannered and the first time we chatted he said we should get acquainted.

Again I invited him to the bar but he was always busy. He never left his room expect to go to class. You come all the way from Russia to stay in a small room and miss out in the college experience. I guess Mother Russia wanted to send this nerd to impress people instead of some party animal. Or maybe he was a spy.

Jerome

My third year college classes were much tougher than the past two. Again I got my own room and shared a common room with two other guys. With cable! There was my favorite roommate JP McCool and my nice and friendly roommate Jerome.

However for being a Jamaican, my roommate Jerome was the most uptight person I have ever met. And he didn’t even smoke weed. I think there is an unspoken rule that if you’re Jamaican you can smoke the ganja where ever you go.

He had some awesome dreadlocks. Then his ex-girl friend cut them off. And I’m like why?! I don’t know how long it takes to grow them, braid them and go without washing them? Speaking of ex-girlfriend, she hung around all of the time. Without being a fuck buddy.

Me and my other roommate McCool became great friends and Jerome felt left out. But we asked him all of the time if he wants to drink some beer, watch a movie, go to the bar with us.  Or just shoot the shit. When his birthday came around he actually wrote down a message asking his friends to come to his birthday. That’s funny.

Of course he can’t drink worth a damn. I heard he was puking all over the toilet. Good thing he had his own bathroom. I don’t even remember the last time I puked all over the toilet. Haha. Because I don’t make it to one in time. Haha.

There was this long running joke since the first few days Jerome couldn’t find his tape. He kept asking us all of the time if we seen his tape. Look Jerome, me and JP don’t have your damn tape, it must be in your room or the common room. I didn’t even know why he wanted tape, but whatever.

I should have just bought him another one because he was clearly too damn cheap to buy it himself. Then the last day he picked up his text book and his tape was there all along. I still don’t know why he didn’t move the book earlier or need the text book in the first place.

JP McCool

McCool was my favorite college roommate and good friend. What a McCool name. That year would have sucked balls without him. Sure the first few weeks I went to the bar with some people down the hall. It was fun but nobody smoked weed and I didn’t have much in common. And I kind of pissed off some of them when I left the bar really drunk and they looked all over for me.

I remember this plump girl wanted me to get facebook. And I was thinking what the Hell is facebook? It took me a while to finally get one. Then I wrote a series of these stupid long ass comments that I thought were funny and lost a lot of my friends. But this gave birth to this very blogpage where I can write about anything I want. Like Frisbee golf or leprechauns.

At the time I was pretty fat. I really let myself go. Oh Big Macs and loneliness are a dangerous mix. I guess it’s because I love to eat. And me and JP love our Kraft dinner. He had like a cauldron and we would share two or more boxes of Kraft dinner or Kraft brunch.

So I didn’t have much chance with any decent looking chicks. Even though girls have low standards. And my pal Wilson made fun of me. I now lost over 30 pounds and almost have a six pack. Hello ladies.

JP is a smart guy. After all he went to a private school. I knew a guy at soccer who also attended private school. He was very kind but he didn’t really have much social skills.  

But JP was McCool.

I think JP majored in physics and messed around with lasers. He is like the guys off of the Big Bang Theory. But not so much of a nerd. So he really helped me out with a lot of math. I was hoping he could have took the exam in my place.

Speaking of exams, I’m pretty damn good at them. I suck at essay questions or fill in the blanks but if I see the options I can tell the right answer. “Oh teach, you would want me to pick A wouldn’t you?” I take my time and wait till the very end to hand it in. I go through the whole exam for questions I’m certain of. And then I go through it again a little slower and leave the ones I have no clue till the end.

Too bad I really had to go the bathroom during one. I was about to shit my pants and couldn’t wait an hour. So I explained my situation to the T.A. and it worked out anyway.

Now this is getting way, way off topic but I was watching what I think was British Who Wants to be a Millionaire and one of the answers was obviously the letter B. But the letter B was actually on the option C. If you see what I’m getting at. And it fucked with his mind. So he picked option B and lost. It was almost unbearable to watch.

While off topic; one time the hall monitor came by because the bitches across the hall wanted us to turn down the volume. Look if its too loud than just swing on by and just ask. You know, instead of tattling on us. And the janitor broke my Wii cables but didn’t take any responsibility. And I missed Wii bowling.

We had some good times. Good thing me and JP love to drink beer and we didn’t like dance bars. The second semester we both took astronomy on Monday and had no classes on Tuesday. Astronomy was a joke. Even for me. And the campus bar was right around the corner.

I had a credit card which was like free money and we’d get two or more pitchers of beer. Each. And maybe some fries. Each. We met some interesting people. I remember we were chatting with this hot chick that was going out with her professor. Hilarious.

We would then walk home all drunk and call the lesbians at the all-women’s dorm, lesbians. Or quote Grandma’s boy. “I want metal legs.” On weekends we would bar hop all down Richmond Street and get pizza. Yes we had some adventures. And I’m planning making some more when I visit the T.O. whenever the weather isn’t like absolute zero.