Hmm. Dubious distinction dept: although I've been living here on and off since 1976 (the last stint from 1994-solid) I've never experienced Canada Day as A CANADIAN, eh? But now that my shiny Canadian passport snuggles happily next to my US one, I guess strawberry margaritas are in order, eh, fellow Canadians?
I'll tidy the beaver pelts while I'm at it and put the Moosehead on the arctic ice while waving off the horse-sized horseflies and greet Chas McDonald, the Mountie/postie when he comes a-deliverin' my weekly supply from Down South, and hopefully he won't have ripped out the good pages from my Penthouse magazine this time, eh?
And must man the fortifications 'gainst these Queebeckers who've had it in for me ever since the Plains of Abraham. I can hear their cries as I type, see their torches burning! "À Louer" is no longer their battle cry! No, it's "Complet! Complet! Complet!"
Je me souviens! Yes, I remember! When I haven't had ten Strawberry Margaritas celebrating Canada Day! Lionel Groulx, the nazi with the unpronounceable name, René Levesque, the midget who smoked himself into the grave, Jean Drapeau, who gave us the biggest Monster Truck arena (Olympic Stadium) in the Four Corners . . . believe it or not, my loyalty is with YOU!
Yes, I must end this by formally renouncing Canada Day as a sham, eh? No Mounties, people from Vancouver not allowed through security,
We Be Quebecers Here!
So get that maple leaf outta my face.