It occurs to me (too late, on the airplane with no alternative reading material, of course) that reading a book entitled "The Cheese Monkeys" on the way to Montreal might not be a great way to ingratiate oneself with the locals.
This is a special talent of mine. The last time it happened, I was reading Al Franken's "Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them" on the way deep into the heart (well, the armpit, anyway) of Lubbock, Texas. I'm lucky I wasn't tossed off the plane headfirst into a barrel of cow dookie.
Then again, what would the Quebequois do, surrender me to death? heh. At least the book wasn't entitled "The Quebequois: Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys and the Soap-Dodging Wine-Guzzling Frenchies who Begat Them". That would've really been insulting. It could've been worse, I suppose, were I actually headed to FRANCE. At least Quebec is once-removed. Good thing I wasn't busted, or I surely would've been dumped into a vat of spent grape skins or worse, forced to drink Rosé wine on ice and eat bad cheese.
Ok, all you Canadian/French friends, don't get your feathers up in a kerfuffle. You know I adore Canada. (And French people. We have a mutual aversion to the bath.) Else I wouldn't keep going there and losing money on the exchange rate.
Maybe next week on my way to kickoff in San Fran I can read some neo-nazi anti-glbt propaganda and win me some friends on the left coast.
