It seems that I am Canadian. The land of snow topped peaks, snow topped everything really, but only part of the year. The rest of the time, it’s too darn hot. Oh yeah being Canadian means I must be exceedingly polite, to the point of nausea, and end every other sentence with eh, eh. The place where beaver tails are pastry, not the tails of actual beavers (though we have those too). Where poutine, the food of the gods (my Goddess tells me) was invented. Why anything containing cheese curds is considered God like food can only be answered by my Goddess. The land of multicultural food, multicultural people and multiculturalism, though almost everyone speaks English, at least part time.
Where anyone over the age of 18 can get married, and we started a World Wide trend, pleasing divorce lawyers to no end.
Only one more question…what and where the heck is Canada.
I’m sorry for all the swearing in this Chronicle. My Goddess made me do it.
Slow Poke