And what is this troublesome tome, you ask (or more likely wouldn’t ask)?  Is it the dregs of the literary barrel, the likes of tawdry romances, books with “shopaholic” in the title, or Dan Brown novels?  Not hardly.  I have not fallen so far in our time apart, my friends.  As it happens, I’m reading Crime and Punishment, a classic of Russian Literature.  So why should I be embarrassed, you again might ask?  It’s Doestoy-friggin’-evsky for God’s sake.  Well, that’s just it.  I’m sick of the eye-rolling, the  sarcasm, and the implied, “Ooooh, Doestoyevsky, eh?”

It appears that there are only a few known responses to great works of literature these days.  It is acceptable if the reader appears to be a student, or scholarly in general, but otherwise people seem to think the reader is showing off or else overreaching himself.  You really do get a sense of, “Who does this guy think he is [...]]]> Lately, I’ve been in an awkward position, and not in any sexual way… not this time.  No, I find myself feeling shame, actual shame, based on what I’m reading.  Personally, I think it’s uncalled for, not to mention untoward.  However, toward or not, I still catch myself shifting my book into skewed reading positions that keep the cover hidden to the general public.  On the subway, it’s the cross-legged, cover cover-up.  In the staff room, it’s the face-down on the table hunched over reading style.  These are the awkward positions of being in the awkward position of feeling ashamed of your book.

And what is this troublesome tome, you ask (or more likely wouldn’t ask)?  Is it the dregs of the literary barrel, the likes of tawdry romances, books with “shopaholic” in the title, or Dan Brown novels?  Not hardly.  I have not fallen so far in our time apart, my friends.  As it happens, I’m reading Crime and Punishment, a classic of Russian Literature.  So why should I be embarrassed, you again might ask?  It’s Doestoy-friggin’-evsky for God’s sake.  Well, that’s just it.  I’m sick of the eye-rolling, the  sarcasm, and the implied, “Ooooh, Doestoyevsky, eh?”

It appears that there are only a few known responses to great works of literature these days.  It is acceptable if the reader appears to be a student, or scholarly in general, but otherwise people seem to think the reader is showing off or else overreaching himself.  You really do get a sense of, “Who does this guy think he is reading a book like that.  Must be trying to show off his intelligence to the world (read: subway car).”   Is it actually plausible that someone would choose to read a book purely to demonstrate his or her academic acumen or pretense thereof?  I’m not sure, it  seems like quite an effort without much pay off.

When I first caught a few looks on the subway, a few hmphs, I wondered, “Do I do this?”  Do I judge people by what they’re reading?  Damn right I do.  But it’s usually the other end of the literary spectrum  And I really shouldn’t, because there are times when I read airport pulp (sometimes not even at airports) and I certainly wouldn’t want to be judged by it.  If someone caught me reading, oh let’s say, John Grisham, I’d certainly feel an even deeper sense of shame than I do now.  I’d be scrambling through my bag in a flash saying, “Wait, wait! I’m actually reading Doestoyevsky!” I guess it’s the same impulse that leads me to scratch at those damn “Oprah Book Club” stickers.  So, am I destined to be embarrassed by both really bad and really good books?  Will I be forced to find books that straddle the divide?  Nah… In the end, it really doesn’t bother me that much, it’s more of just an observation.  I feel much better now.  Good, I’m glad we talked.

Anyway, that’s enough tangential Tolstoy.  For now, it’s back to my book.  I’ve made it through the Crime and I have a feeling there’s some punishment on it’s way.

Anyway, what quite confused me about this Internet weather report was that although the temperature was clearly given as 34 degrees, a little further down, the temperature was adjusted to 40 degrees with Wind Chill. Come again? Wind Chill?

Explain that one to me.

A while back, I was at the local veterinarian’s office with the Soph-Star. She had rescued a tiny, abandoned kitten from the middle of the road, and I had tagged along to ask about my animal-magnetism, which seemed to be flagging of late. The vet assured us that the kitten, whom we had already labelled “Flea Willikers,” was strong and needed only near constant care and frequent eye-dropperings of milk. She informed me that, unfortunately, my animal-magnetism had reversed polarity, which I found distressing. Sadly, the stalwart Flea mewed his way off this mortal coil that very night. Poor little, short-lived Flea. Hopefully we showed him the best day and a half of his little life.

So, all in all, an upsetting trip to the Vet. However, as we were waiting in line, I was flipping through one of those pet-type magazines, which I can only imagine Veterinarian offices subscribing to, when I came upon a small advert that caught my attention. It was a blank white square with only the word “Neuticles” in blue font, and the catch phrase, “Testicular Implantation for Pets.” I was intrigued. I was well aware of the principle of reverse-vasectomies, but I also knew that pets are completely castrated like a sixteenth-century soprano. How the heck do you reverse that? Thankfully, the website, www.neuticles.com was supplied at the bottom of the ad. My head swam with comedic potential. There was [...]]]> Well, this is a new one on me.

A while back, I was at the local veterinarian’s office with the Soph-Star. She had rescued a tiny, abandoned kitten from the middle of the road, and I had tagged along to ask about my animal-magnetism, which seemed to be flagging of late. The vet assured us that the kitten, whom we had already labelled “Flea Willikers,” was strong and needed only near constant care and frequent eye-dropperings of milk. She informed me that, unfortunately, my animal-magnetism had reversed polarity, which I found distressing. Sadly, the stalwart Flea mewed his way off this mortal coil that very night. Poor little, short-lived Flea. Hopefully we showed him the best day and a half of his little life.

So, all in all, an upsetting trip to the Vet. However, as we were waiting in line, I was flipping through one of those pet-type magazines, which I can only imagine Veterinarian offices subscribing to, when I came upon a small advert that caught my attention. It was a blank white square with only the word “Neuticles” in blue font, and the catch phrase, “Testicular Implantation for Pets.” I was intrigued. I was well aware of the principle of reverse-vasectomies, but I also knew that pets are completely castrated like a sixteenth-century soprano. How the heck do you reverse that? Thankfully, the website, www.neuticles.com was supplied at the bottom of the ad. My head swam with comedic potential. There was no way I wasn’t going to go home and look that up immediately….

….A month and a half later, I sat in front of my computer desperately trying to think of something to look up on the web in order to maintain my achieved level of procrastination. Like a flash from the blue (or a kick to the nuts) I suddenly remembered… Neuticles! Better late than never. And boy was it worth it. A simple flash animation of a bouncing blue ball that sprouts atomic electron orbits and proclaims “Neuticles – The Revolutionary Testicular Implant Procedure for Pets,” led me into the site.

I soon discovered that what I had stumbled upon was not, in fact, a means to reload your puppy’s pistol, but a complete cosmetic surgery. Yes, this patented technique allows proud pet-owners to implant silicon testicles during the neutering process which apparently allows your pet to “retain his natural look, self-esteem and aids in the trauma associated with neutering” for both pet and owner. In fact, the website proudly proclaims that, “With Neuticles – It’s like nothing ever changed!” Yeah, right… nothing has changed at all.

After I had stopped laughing and wiped the tears from my eyes, I dug a little deeper. The “Most Asked Questions” (an MAQ apparently) explains that “Neuticles eliminates ‘neuter hesitant’ concerns.” Neuticles is doing Bob Barker proud by allowing pet-owners to castrate their pets without hesitation and thus saving the world from thousands of homeless strays. The site emphasises that, “We feel the removal of a God given body part – leaving a male pet looking unwhole after the traditional form of neutering, is not only unethical but unnatural.”

Right. I just don’t buy it. I mean, come on. If you’re going to harp on about God-given body parts, then don’t remove them in the first place. It’s unethical to knacker your pet, but it’s not if the pet doesn’t notice the difference? So apparently, if you cut off my hand, but keep a handy prosthetic nearby, you’re in the clear. Another question asks whether a dog would actually miss anything anyway. The site affirms their unfettered insight into the Canine mind by stating in no uncertain terms that

people know their beloved pet. Their pet can tell them when they are hungry, want to play, don’t feel well, hide when approaching the vet’s office or will get excited when driving by or going to the park – why wouldn’t the pet know a familiar body part is missing Would he know if his foot was cut off? Of course he would – its only common sense.

Yeah, common sense, that’s what that is. Chances are, if your dog’s self-esteem is in danger by lopping off his breeding jewels, then he’ll most likely suspect a little something with his “Neuticles.” Hmmm, this is New… and it Tickles.

Someone else asks, “Do Neuticles come in different models?” Despite the hilarious choice of words in that query, the answer is even better. “Neuticles are available in three models: Neuticle-Originals (rigid firmness), Neuticle-Natural (natural firmness) and Neuticles UltraPLUS.” They range in price from $73 to $839, and are curiously sold in pairs and singly (explain that one to me). Each are made from FDA medically approved (“for human use”) materials that “replicate the animal’s testicle in size, shape, weight and feel.” Now forgetting about the image of someone feeling their dog’s equipment, this leads to the predictable, yet hilarious, question, “Can Neuticles be implanted in People?” Absolutely not. Poor Lance Armstrong.

Of course, the site also has the requisite Testimonials Page (I would have gone with “Testes-Moanials”), with statements like: “I’ve put off neutering ‘Crooked Joe’ for months and when I found out about Neuticles and spoke to them it made me feel better about neutering. Joe not only looks the same now – but doesn’t know he’s missing anything.” To me, the most unethical aspect here, is naming your dog “Crooked Joe.” Lane from Louisiana states, “He’s a guy and I wanted him to remain looking like one.”

Now, these testimonials make me curious. Are there that many pet-owners that sit around staring at their dog’s balls? That sounds like a fantastic way to spend Friday night. “He looks the same!” Sure, but who’s looking? “Look Honey, he’s licking them again! He thinks they’re real!” And I bet these are the same type of people who chop off a dog’s ears, or lop off the tails because it supposedly looks better.

To top it all off, there’s even a press section, where Rush Limbaugh states, “Neuticles are just plain neat!” But to be fair, he was probably hopped up on goof-balls and hoping for some sort of Bill Clinton application.

I find myself wondering what my grandfather, who was a veterinarian his whole life (except for the beginning and ending parts) would think of the Neuticles Revolution. I’m reminded of how he would talk about castrating sheep until someone would inevitably ask him how you go about doing that. “Well, it’s pretty simple really,” he would say, “first you take an elastic band and wrap it around and around the scrotum nice and tight. Then you find two big rocks…” Here, he would weigh the imaginary rocks in his hands. “And then, *SMACK*” he would clap his hands together, “it’s done.” Some startled observer would inevitably ask, “My God! Doesn’t that hurt?” My grandfather would look at them like it was the most ridiculous question he’d ever heard, before answering, “Not at all, you just have to make sure to keep your fingers clear.”

So yeah, I think I know what my grandfather would say about Neuticles. He’d shake his head and say, “That’s Nuts.”

In fact, in my beautiful little town in New Brunswick (which I like to say, puts the “ain’t” in “quaint”) the signboard on the highway for years stated: “Welcome to St. George, Home of the Best Drinking Water in Canada.” Now, after decades, that sign has since been changed, partially, I think, for the sake of new tourism priorities, but also because I think the claim was fairly dubious to begin with. Regardless, since there is no such thing as “irregardless,” the water was very tasty. In fact, to my knowledge, it [...]]]> You know, one thing we all take for granted in Canada is the ole, life-sustaining double-Hydrogen-single-Oxygen cocktail. Our massive, snowbound country has 60% of the world’s fresh water, although our determined efforts are certainly straining the definition of “fresh” these days. I can almost guarantee that anyone who pours a glass of water straight from the tap, and gulps it down on a hot, sunny day (yes, we have those in Canada) never thinks twice about it. Nor do we really consider the wealth of fresh water circling the drain while we brush our teeth or scrape our whiskers off. And have you ever plugged the tub and seen just how much water you use during a long relaxing shower? (I tend to do this quite often given my affinity for long, lustrous locks, and my adversity to cleaning out the drain). Yes, I think it’s safe to say that all of us take water for granted.

In fact, in my beautiful little town in New Brunswick (which I like to say, puts the “ain’t” in “quaint”) the signboard on the highway for years stated: “Welcome to St. George, Home of the Best Drinking Water in Canada.” Now, after decades, that sign has since been changed, partially, I think, for the sake of new tourism priorities, but also because I think the claim was fairly dubious to begin with. Regardless, since there is no such thing as “irregardless,” the water was very tasty. In fact, to my knowledge, it still is. But the reason I choose to supply you with this little tidbit of small-town trivia, is to relate the story of my cousin’s husband, D’Oyen.

Carol and D’Oyen moved to our little town straight from Toronto. D’Oyen was born in Jamaica, but since he was a young boy, his main experience of Canada had been the big city. I think that he was a little taken aback at the substantial shift in the pace of life in our town, which would be something akin to shifting from fourth into reverse. It would often take D’Oyen hours to run an errand, because he was baffled by the number of people who would actually stop to talk to him along the way. Anyway, it was after one of these afternoon-long errands that D’Oyen wheeled into our driveway, ran up the stairs, poured a glass of water and gulped it down. I happened to be in the kitchen and said, “So D’Oyen, a little thirsty?” (I was sarcastic even as a teenager). “No, not really,” he said between gulps. I was slightly confused. He finished the glass, held it up approvingly, and said, “Wow, that is good.” I was still confused, “D’Oyen, you’ve been living here for a year. You’ve never tried the water?” He looked a little sheepish, “Well, yeah, but I just noticed that sign on the highway for the first time today, so I had to come in and check,” Which just goes to show you that you don’t know what you’ve got until somebody tells you… or writes it in block letters on a billboard.

Consequently, you really don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone. And I’ll tell you, one thing I miss everyday in Karachi is that sparkling, clear St. George water. Even living as I do, in one of the most expensive areas of the city, water comes through the lines Monday and Friday at 4:00, for one hour. At which point, you have to run outside and plug in the pump to try and fill the tank buried under your lawn. Now, to be fair, it is now coming into the hotter months and water is harder to come by, but even in the winter, the water gushes forth only once a day – no matter how many times I strike it with my staff.

The timing of the water flow is a complete mystery to me. I leave it up to my man Paul, who always tries to explain, “Today – no water, tomorrow –half hour of salty water, next day – one hour of dirty water, next day – one hour of ‘Sweet’ water.” Of the three water categories, dirty, salty and sweet, the last one, surprisingly enough, is definitely the one you’re aiming for. Now, how Paul figures all this out, I have no idea. There seems to be some secret network of servants in the neighbourhood that figures out when and what quality of water will be coming. I usually just shake my head and say, “Ok, whatever.” Now, since one hour of water doesn’t do much to fill a 5000 gallon tank, especially if you have a housemate who tends to take 3 to 5 showers a day, your tank will go dry at some point. In my experience, this usually happens on holidays, weekends and during transport strikes. Then you have to call up a tanker service, who will tell you that a truck will be there within the hour. An average of six hours later, a tanker truck will arrive and pump, hopefully, sweet water into your tank. Add to this that all of the tanker trucks are part of a mafia that control the prices and supply of the water, and you’ll start to get an idea of the irritation involved.

I feel a little ashamed of complaining about this, since my troubles are obviously insubstantial compared to the countless thousands that survive with next to no water at all. However, believe it or not, all of this rambling has all been leading up to one single story. You can really tell I haven’t been blogging in a while, since my writing is running on like a trip to the toilet after some spicy street food. All this blah, blah, blah about the drip, drip, drip has been to say that my housemate and I decided to sign up for drinking water delivery. We had tried boiling and filtering the “sweet” water, but it just wasn’t cutting it. And since you never know what micro-bugs are swimming around in there, we decided we would play it safe and call Ava or Culligan’s.

However, we left this to a friend to set up for us, who, for whatever reason, decided to save us 20 Ruppees a bottle and instead of ordering a recognised brand of drinking water, signed us up for “Winsip Drink.” No-Name, President’s Choice water. Winsip (which sounds like a windows application I downloaded recently) seemed extremely pleased to have our business. In fact, we soon received the following letter:

Dear Sir,

It is indeed heartening for us to find your great name among our valuable clientele. While we express our thanks for giving us an opportunity to serve you, we congratulate you for selecting a quality drinking water of course water is a catalyst for making body active and hence the choice of water is of high essence.

We have developed and offered WINSIP with all humbleness to be of service to human kind which been engulfed a whirl of complexities of tough life-style, requires special attention on health issues.

Commercial aspects apart, our focus is the satisfaction of WINSIP users and the effect of WINSIP drinking water on their health. Not at all contended with the efforts put in developing WINSIP, we are quiet eager to gain from your valuable suggestion and views to further improve quality and services to what ever extent possible and feasible. We will feel privilege to get enlightened with your valuable comments that would definitely push us making further improvement in our product.

Signed by CEO.

Now, as soon as we received this letter, I was a became a big fan of WINSIP. Grammatical and syntactical errors aside (and I assure you, I copied it word for word) my favourite part is the last paragraph. I love how they say, “Commercial aspects apart, our focus is your satisfaction and health.” It’s great to see a company with a little honesty. Other than our profits, we care about you the most. Fantastic. And I’m also glad to see that they tacked on that “feasible” just to make sure that they won’t be held to any outlandish suggestions.

Unfortunately for me, I won’t be receiving anymore WINSIP letters, because soon after we started drinking it, my housemate and I both admitted to a feeling of lethargy and apathy. Since this is often a common state of mind for me, I didn’t think much of it, but my housemate was convinced it was the water. I wonder if we would have come to that conclusion if it hadn’t been 20 Rupees cheaper. The mind plays amazing tricks. In any case, we have now switched to the Ava service and things are flowing nicely now. Most importantly, it is pleasantly palatable when mixed with contraband Scotch.

One thing’s for sure, as soon as I get home this summer, I’m going to walk in the door and poor myself a nice tall glass… right from the tap.

Last night, I was marking some homework, and in the space allotted for the teacher’s name, one student had written, “Sir David Fork.”

Now, I found it strange enough to begin with, that by taking on this teaching job, I had suddenly been knighted (although sometimes I feel I’ll have deserved it in the end). It’s disconcerting to be referred to as “Sir David,” and makes me feel that I should somehow be out battling mythical beasts and competing in upcoming jousting tournaments. But now, to discover that one of my students has, after two full months, thought my family was named after an eating utensil, really gets my tines in a twist, if you will.

Sir David Fork, knight of the round dinner table, proponent of culinary Etiquette, arch enemy of the uncouth, hand-eating, Earl of Sandwich. Oh what manner of adventures await him?

If you think that the email forward you are sending me is a hoax, but you’re sending it anyway, just in case, I’ll let you in on a little secret: It’s a hoax.

There is absolutely no way that Microsoft, were it even possible to track, would give out a nickel to every apple-cheeked kid who sent an email forward. Think about it. Microsoft did not get where it is today by thinking about the little guy, especially the stupid little guy.

Nor will that cute little baby, who apparently has cancer, ever benefit from your sending that email to everyone you know. In fact, I can almost guarantee that the kid in that picture is now a thriving teenager given how long ago I first started getting these emails.

I will find out about viruses on my own, but thanks for your concern. I tend not to open emails with attachments that I don’t recognise so you can quit warning me about that. And you know that one you guys send me twice a year about the file that has infected my windows system? Yeah, that file is supposed to be there. Chill Winston…

That girl with the red hair who keeps going missing? I bet she’s just fine. Perhaps next time, before sending me a missing child’s photo, you might consider that for such a cross-country scheme to be effective, some details about the child last known whereabouts, height, [...]]]> To all my well-meaning and otherwise, very intelligent friends:

If you think that the email forward you are sending me is a hoax, but you’re sending it anyway, just in case, I’ll let you in on a little secret: It’s a hoax.

There is absolutely no way that Microsoft, were it even possible to track, would give out a nickel to every apple-cheeked kid who sent an email forward. Think about it. Microsoft did not get where it is today by thinking about the little guy, especially the stupid little guy.

Nor will that cute little baby, who apparently has cancer, ever benefit from your sending that email to everyone you know. In fact, I can almost guarantee that the kid in that picture is now a thriving teenager given how long ago I first started getting these emails.

I will find out about viruses on my own, but thanks for your concern. I tend not to open emails with attachments that I don’t recognise so you can quit warning me about that. And you know that one you guys send me twice a year about the file that has infected my windows system? Yeah, that file is supposed to be there. Chill Winston…

That girl with the red hair who keeps going missing? I bet she’s just fine. Perhaps next time, before sending me a missing child’s photo, you might consider that for such a cross-country scheme to be effective, some details about the child last known whereabouts, height, weight, eye-colour etc, might be helpful. Yup, you guessed it, it’s a hoax.

Enough about microwaves. Water isn’t going to spontaneously leap from the glass and boil in your hands when it somehow becomes superheated in the microwave. An old lady never killed her poodle by trying to dry it off in one of those contraptions. Use a microwave safe dish, even if it’s plastic, and you’ll be fine, super evil plastic particles aren’t going to infiltrate your food.

Oh yeah, and your cell phone isn’t going to blow up a gas station, and please don’t try to perform CPR on yourself by coughing vigorously (although it doesn’t matter, you’ve only got a few seconds before you’re going to pass out anyway.)

And as far as I know, no matter how noble the cause, internet email petitions have no binding legal authority whatsoever. So why bother?

In short, any email that ends with the phrase “please send this to everyone you know” or something of the sort, is always a hoax. Seriously, if you had something really important to tell your friend about, would you ever say, oh and send this to everyone in your inbox? I have never sent on something like that, and never will, so you might as well not bother sending it to me in the first place because the hoax stops here. But beyond that, you just shouldn’t send it to anyone in the first place. It’s a hoax. Always. Every single time. Your wasting all of our time by sending it, and your giving gratification to some whack-job who gets satisfaction from seeing how far an email chain will go (never understood that actually, why not just keep a box of tissues by the bed?).

Thanks!

David J. Ford

Journey: Hey you know those massage guys with the oil that stand on the side of the road?

Me: Yeah

Journey: I just found out recently that they’ll do anything… anything… if you ask them.

Me: I just took that for granted. Why, are you interested?

Journey: Ha, no, but I look at them differently now, I think, you know, who would want that from one of those slimey guys?

RJ: Wait, wait, wait, what do you mean, they’ll do anything?

Journey: You know… anything… male or female.

RJ: Sexually?!

Journey: Of course, what did you think I meant?

RJ: Oh, I thought you meant like, “Go get me a sandwich.”

Journey: Oh… well, probably that too.

At school the other day, I was asked to stand in for a teacher who was absent. It was a Grade 5 Urdu class, so I knew I wouldn’t have much to contribute to their education that day. After I affirmed, that yes, I’m in a TV show, and that yes, my name is David, but my name on the show is Mike, and that yes, I was wearing a red shirt in one episode, and yes, I do like the colour red, but it is not my favourite, I decided I might as well go with the ole standby: The time-trusted Q&A session about Canada. “Does anyone know where I’m from?” I asked. They all nodded yes. “Where then?” I prodded. “Spain!” I was a little taken aback. “Uh, no, not Spain.” “France!” I surreptitiously checked my underarm odour, “Nope, but I do speak French.” I hinted. “The UK,” shouted out one little guy. “That’s not even a country.” “Africa.” “That’s a whole continent! There’s over fifty countries in Africa.” “Egypt.” “No, no,” I tried to clarify, “I’m not from Africa.” “But Africa’s a continent.” “Right, so I’m not from any country in Africa.” “Egypt?” asked the same student again. I sighed, “No, not Egypt… That’s in Africa, you can rule out that entire continent. But I am from a really big country.” “Russia!” “No, not quite that big.” “America.” Finally we were getting somewhere, “That’s close,” [...]]]> Know what I love about kids? They’re so funny. You just never know what outrageous statement is coming next. Kind of like Fox News, except, you know, truthful.

At school the other day, I was asked to stand in for a teacher who was absent. It was a Grade 5 Urdu class, so I knew I wouldn’t have much to contribute to their education that day. After I affirmed, that yes, I’m in a TV show, and that yes, my name is David, but my name on the show is Mike, and that yes, I was wearing a red shirt in one episode, and yes, I do like the colour red, but it is not my favourite, I decided I might as well go with the ole standby: The time-trusted Q&A session about Canada.
“Does anyone know where I’m from?” I asked. They all nodded yes. “Where then?” I prodded.
“Spain!”
I was a little taken aback. “Uh, no, not Spain.”
“France!”
I surreptitiously checked my underarm odour, “Nope, but I do speak French.” I hinted.
“The UK,” shouted out one little guy.
“That’s not even a country.”
“Africa.”
“That’s a whole continent! There’s over fifty countries in Africa.”
“Egypt.”
“No, no,” I tried to clarify, “I’m not from Africa.”
“But Africa’s a continent.”
“Right, so I’m not from any country in Africa.”
“Egypt?” asked the same student again.
I sighed, “No, not Egypt… That’s in Africa, you can rule out that entire continent. But I am from a really big country.”
“Russia!”
“No, not quite that big.”
“America.”
Finally we were getting somewhere, “That’s close,” I said, “but not quite.”
“Australia?”
“No.”
“Austria?”
“No.”
“Afghanistan?”
At this point, I figured these guys were messing with me. “No, no, no.”
And then, seemingly at random, the answer finally came, “Canada?”
“YES! Canada, you win!”
“What do I win?”
“My gratitude.”
“Oh”
Immediately another hand shot up. “On the TV show, you’re from Canada too.”
I shook my head, “Then why didn’t you guess then?”
“Cause TV’s not real.”
He had me there. “No, no it isn’t… Does anyone have any questions about Canada?”
One hand went up immediately. “Yes?”
“In Canada, when an ambulance drives by, do people pull over?”
“Yes, you have to, that’s the law.”
“Oh good.”
I looked around. No further questions. Apparently, their curiosity for Canadian trivia was limited to Emergency Vehicle procedures.
And that was it.

It was going to be a long class.

“Um, anybody need any help with your English homework?”

I was a little confused, so I said, “You mean… I look like a particular comedian?” He shook his head, “No-no, you just have a stand-up comedian look about you.” I thought for a moment, and then said, “Well, thanks… I guess.”

It wasn’t until much later that I realised that really, this was all just a fancy way of calling me “Funny-Lookin.”