Trampolines in the Sky and Why I’m Starting to Hate Canada
So, I’m home safely, in one piece, and very well fed. Last night I enjoyed my favorite pasta dinner from my favorite Boston restaurant before collapsing into bed for eleven glorious hours. This morning, I had ice cream for breakfast, and tonight I’m planning on eating sushi until I throw up. Gluttonous? You bet. But frankly, after the flight I had yesterday, I deserve it.
I’ve done the trans-Atlantic thing more than a few times now, and there seems to be a rather unfair pattern emerging. The flight will consist of roughly five hours of relative peace and calm as we trawl across the ocean, and is supplemented by ninety minutes of pure, vomit-inspiring terror as we swoop down the Canadian border. At this point, our plane ceases to be a graceful example of modern technology, a crowning tribute to the ingenuity of mankind, and turns into a giant trampoline that dozens of obese, invisible sky giants are bouncing on, giggling with child-like glee. For whatever reason – jet streams, high winds, Canadians themselves – the turbulence over Canada is absolutely terrifying. I’m a horrible, nervous flier to begin with, but I always find myself engaging in whispered, frantic conversations with God when we ricochet along the coast of Newfoundland, promising the Big Guy extravagantly ridiculous things in exchange for getting my sorry ass on the ground safe and sound. God is well aware of the fact that I am completely incapable of keeping any of those promises, and it’s only a matter of time before he gets fed up with my spineless blasphemy and curses me with a rat tail or a third arm growing out my forehead or something equally freakish. Still, I can’t seem to help myself.
What made this particular journey a bit more interesting was that, while we were being tossed about in the sky like a hackey-sack among a group of stoners, a little boy began crying and didn’t stop until we were on the ground. Usually I don’t mind sobbing children on planes (hey, often I feel like sobbing myself) but this small child sounded uncannily like Gage Creed in Pet Sematary after he had been resurrected and was systematically turning his family and neighbors into tasty mid-afternoon snacks. I was convinced I was going to either die in a fiery plane wreck or be eaten by a zombie-toddler equipped with viciously sharp teeth and his daddy’s scalpel.
Obviously, because I’m writing this now, I made it through the ordeal in one piece, unless the zombie-toddler got to me after all and I’ve since been reanimated and have forgotten about it. That would make me a pretty pathetic zombie, though, wouldn’t it? Regardless. What I certainly do remember is our rather lively landing, which consisted of the pilot bouncing us along the runway three or four times before swerving dangerously close to a ditch and finally righting the plane into something resembling a straight line toward the terminal. At that point, he turned on the overhead speaker to apologize for the Canadian turbulence, the “bit of a rough landing,” and – why not? – announce the football score.
Anyway, Canada, I’m sorry, but you’re going on my shit list. It’s only fair, because you clearly seem to have me on yours, and I thought we were cool, man. Apparently not. Until you apologize, Canada, and stop trying to kill me in planes over your borders, I’m going to scoff at your weird-ass, goofy money that looks as if it came out of a Monopoly box. I’m going to tell all my British friends – most of whom really don’t know any better anyway – that the US is fully planning on annexing the entire country in a manner of months and selling it to India. I’m going to tell the following, awful joke to as many people as possible: “What do urine samples and Canadian beer have in common? The taste.”
I’m going to toast your ass, Canada. Bring it on, bitch.
Now, please enjoy this bit of giggling, Midwestern humor from folks (and puppets) who also have difficulty in disguising their revulsion for our northern neighbors.
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