As most Canadians know, the best place to shop for bargains is practically anywhere in the United States. Since my job doesn't let me take extended trips anywhere decent, I frequently order items online and have it shipped to a parcel pickup service in Pembina, ND. Although I've gone across the border many times this summer with nary an incident, yesterday's trip made up for that.
My first mistake was thinking I would have an easier time at the border if I drove my parent's relatively empty car across the border, instead of my SUV full of computer parts and power tools. My second mistake was thinking I wouldn't be profiled with my terrorist good looks. My third mistake was not bringing a white person with me (as I usually did) to lend me some border credibility.
After an hour wait at the US Border, the guard seemed suspicious of me driving my parent's car, and briefly questioned me on this before sending me to wait another hour at the inspection garage for my anal probe. Once inside, all my pockets and belongings were searched, and I was questioned yet again. I then had to wait in a waiting room/holding cell while they searched every inch of my parent's car. When they finally came to the door of the room, I briefly thought my wait was finally over and I was allowed to finally go. That changed when I saw three border guards waiting for me, one with his hand on some dangerous looking device on his belt.
"So," one of the guards said, "who's open alcohol was hidden under the front seat?" I stood there with my jaw on the floor, cursing the mystery alcoholic in my family.
"Uhhhh, I dunno...?" was my skillful defense.
"When's the last time you had a drink?" Asked the shorter guard with the hand on his gun/taser.
"Uhhhh, I dunno...?" was my backup defense, "About 2 weeks ago...?"
The guards looked at each other, sized me up, and then asked if I'd be willing to take a breathalyser. I nodded mutely, silently congratulating myself on my negotiating skills. They told me they'd be back, and left me in the room after presumably locking the door. 3 more visits and 5 pages of paperwork later, I was finally able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. The final hurdle was to drain the bottle of alcohol (which ended up being an 80% full 40oz bottle of lemon Absolut Vodka) outside while being escorted by two armed guards. As I dumped it in the sewer drain outside the garage, I looked up to see a car full of people smiling and waving at me.
"Hey, I know those people!" I said to the border guard at my left.
"Yeah, I kinda figured." He said.
"I guess I can't really stop to say hi?"
"No. Not really," he said as he opened the clip on his holster.
As I finally left the border and made my way to Mike's Parcel Pickup in Pembina, I was still shaken up. After getting my parcels and filling up on cheap american gas, I started to realize how hungry I was. Not seeing any nearby restaurants, I decided to take a chance on some Gas Station Pizza. As I took my first bite, I realized that this might've been the greatest pizza I have ever eaten. Or perhaps it just tasted that much better after my border ordeal, a "Freedom Pizza" if you will. Either way, I savored every amazing bite of it.
After waiting and paying my taxes at the Canadian border, I was finally on my way back home. Although my tastebuds told me that I just had the greatest pizza in the world, my stomach was telling me a different story. Still shaken up, I stupidly tried to settle my grumbling stomach with a litre of bottled water. That didn't have the stomach soothing effect I thought it would. After just a few minutes, I realized I had to pull over before I puked all over the dashboard. As soon as I got out of the car, barely had time to get to the side of the road before my pizza came shooting out of me. Have you ever heard of the phrase "Don't piss into the wind?" Well, that day I learned it was also true of vomiting.
After finding nothing by glossy paper flyers in my parents car, I used nearby leaves and shrubs to clean off my pants and shoes. Once I was somewhat cleaned up, I made my way back to Winnipeg, with the windows open of course.
A few minutes later, my hands started to get extremely itchy. I ignored it for awhile, until I noticed they were getting red as well. Thinking back, I realized I had no idea what kind of plants I grabbed to clean my vomit covered shoes, and I quickly pulled over to wash my hands with whatever was left of my bottled water.
Thinking that this trip just couldn't get any worse, I realized that my stomach wasn't feeling any better. In fact, it was feeling like I was ready to have another eruption, but this time on the other end of my digestive system. I nervously looked around to see any sign of a nearby town or gas station, but there didn't seem to be anything around. Then, like a beacon of light, I saw an empty highway construction area with a gleaming blue porta-potty. Finally, something good was happening to me. I quickly drove off the road towards my blue heaven, and I noticed that the porta-potty was tied down and secured to a two-wheeled trailer. My heart dropped, thinking it was locked up and unavailable. As I ran up a makeshift ramp to the plastic outhouse, I was relieved to find that not only was the door unlocked, the inside seemed fresh and practically pristine. I got in and smiled as I raced to get my pants undone. My gut seemed to gurgle a sigh of relief as I committed myself to sitting down. As soon as my butt touched the toilet seat, something happened. Well, something else happened. The outhouse started to tip. I couldn't believe it, and I pictured the porta-potty as I saw it outside, securely strapped down to the trailer, with no possibility of movement. Then, I pictured the trailer... the two wheeled trailer.
Sitting there, with my pants around my ankles and my hands bracing myself on either side of the porta-potty, I felt like I was on a carnival ride. The worst carnival ride in the world. I felt like crying.
So, who wants to come with me the next time I go to across the border?
