I've made it my mission to do as many ultra-Amurrican things as I can while I'm here. This includes smoking seriously the most godawful cigarettes I've ever dreamt of in my darkest nightmares, because they cost about three bucks and are covered with American symbols. Flags? Eagles? Minimal health warnings? They're USA brand and they feel like I'm inhaling poisonous, deadly freedom. I should mention that Canadian cigarettes cost as much as a compact car and are plastered with warnings like "THIS PRODUCT WILL KILL YOU AND YOUR CHILDREN AS SOON AS POSSIBLE," followed by a picture of some malnutritioned Mexican babies. My USA brand cigarettes don't have any of that bullshit, only some tiny print saying "uhhh, hey dude, if you're pregnant, the surgeon general thinks maybe you shouldn't smoke these." Luckily for me, my womb is baby-free and so my lungs are full of nicotine and tar!
Other things I like: watching some TV series I've already seen and spoiling it for other viewers by quoting inane trivia at them until they beg for mercy. Sorry, friends, but the fact that Rob Lowe is first in the West Wing credits because he was originally supposed to be the main character is TOO IMPORTANT to keep secret any longer! I must divulge this information and distract you from whatever banal plot developments are transpiring!
Also liked (by me): defiantly pronouncing the letter Z as "zed." Yeah, I thought at first that this was one more piece of evidence that the Canadians will never tire of sucking the Queen's cock, but it's grown on me. I attribute this growth to the problem of the last letter of my last name. When pronounced in the proper fashion (zee), Canadians think my name is Nosowitc. I've gotten so much fucking mail addressed to Daniel Nosowitc. Who the balls looks at that and thinks it's a real name? So I'm forced to believe that our not-so-tolerant northern neighbors are pressuring me into changing the singsong way I pronounce my name! The most basic parts of me are being taken over by a snowy menace from above! So now, Pennsylvanians give me that look I've grown so used to lately: the "hmm... you ain't from around these parts, is ya?" look of disdain and curiosity. But mostly disdain. Contributing to this problem is the fact that I don't dress like Pennsylvanian college students (no Abercrombie or Hollister? No running shoes? No cargo shorts? WHO IS THIS GUY AND WHAT PLANET DID HE FLY IN FROM?!). The clerk at Trader Joe's asked me my zip code and I said my Canadian one, just for fun (H2X 3H7). She started typing it, then realized that something's odd about it. "Where are you from?" she suspiciously asked. "Oh, um, Montreal," I replied. "Oh. Well, I'll give you a local zip code, okay hun?" she responded. THANK YOU FOR YOUR GENEROSITY MISS USA!
Honestly though, the Main Line is a pretty attractive place. I'll throw up some pictures to give you guys an idea of the deep-green semi-southern lushness of this humble 'burb. Just as soon as I figure out how to post pictures in this damn adult bloggin-program.
This first picture is taken from the driveway of some woman I canvassed, about ten minutes from my house.
This next one is part of my backyard, taken over by my dad's botanical experiments. That chair is my book-readin' area.
And here are some goddamn fucking deer, or as we salt-of-the-earth folks call them, "overgrown rats." They are a menace to society. I'm not joking about this at all, deer are legitimate man-killing traffic accidents waiting to happen and all my tree-hugging liberalism doesn't stop me from supporting anything that could wipe the furry bastards off the face of the earth.
Click all the pictures to enlarge, and I'd really recommend clicking on the deer picture. That's not bad photography skills that made those deer eyes glow, that's their EVIL INNER NATURE SHINING THROUGH.
