I don't understand why the federal government doesn't just give us a passport when we're born. It's beyond me. My roommate has been trying to get his passport for the last two weeks. He's stood in line, he's sat in the little octagon room with all the chairs. They've closed on him, they've made him get new forms from the website because he coloured outside the little fuck box that you have to put your signature in, and then closed on him. They've sent him away because he doesn't have a guarantor, and then when he got one, well it was the weekend and they were closed.
He pays upwards of two grand a month in income taxes and then the federal government jerks him around and bends him over before they let him leave the country--and he hasn't even been through airport security yet. This is a great country, probably in the top fifty in the world, I'd say. You get the right to vote, you can speak freely (to an extent), you can theoretically do and work wherever you want, but you aren't born with the right to leave. You have to pay for that one. It just gets me. Especially since I watched sicko. Europeans get everything for next to fucking nothing (if you choose to believe everything you see in a Michael Moore documentary), or at least next to. They have four day work weeks in Italy. You know why? Because they've all had revolutions. French officials have long memories and there's guillotines at the end of them. The Brits are always looking for an excuse to kick some parliamentary ass. Makes me wonder...
How many people do you think it would take to storm Parliament? What would they do? Call in the military? Don Wheaton's Chevrolet has more armoured vehicles in it's showroom than the Canadian forces do. Or what if everyone just decided not to pay taxes? I think they'd listen then. Can't throw us all in jail. Just something we should consider.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
I like to go fast
Well, it's Monday. This is what I say to myself as I drive down the street. It's Monday. It feels like a Monday. I like Mondays that feel like Tuesdays. The problem with Mondays that feel like Tuesdays is that someone will inevitably ask you what day it is, you say "Tuesday," but there's always a stranger walking by, waiting for the opportunity to say "No, it's Monday." This is what I'm thinking as I drive a 2007 G6 North on the QE2.
"Maybe you should slow down." That's Derek Lascelle, the salesman that's given me the keys to something that goes faster than is safe. If I wanted to go slower I would have asked for a salesgirl.
"What?" The sunroof is open. I don't see why he opened it when we were on the highway. The tinny rattling of the wind blowing into the backseat doesn't highlight the classiness or luxury that comes with having a sunroof.
"Please slow down." I look at the speedo. It's a solid 160. I like to go fast. This is why I drive a sunfire; more than four cylinders and I'd probably be dead by now. This thing has six. Wheeeeee.
"OK." I slow down to 120. I like this car. The interior is black, a very shiny black. I like shiny. The model looks like a generic Grand Am, nothing very fancy, and as Derek is going on his spiel about how GM has overhauled it's designs, I note that they haven't tried very hard. But it's red. I like red. Red is fast. I like fast. I'm glad I had the foresight to leave my Mastercard at home. This was well before Derek let me test drive the car. Back when he was smiling.
I pull back onto 34th ave. Derek's grip on the door handle loosens as we get nearer to Southgate Pontiac, Buick, GM.
"Should I pull it around?" I ask.
"You can leave it here." I half expect him to cross himself as he gets out of the car.
If things didn't seem to go as smoothly as he hoped they would (I thought everything went fine), it's his fault. He gave me the keys. Ask. They'll tell you. I am not to drive. I've been asked how much I had to pay the guy administering my road test for a pass. I have people sign a waiver before they get in my car.
No. That's a lie. Non-fiction, right, I remember now.
"So...Should I give you a call in a couple a days?" I feel bad that I'm not buying this car. He's a pretty nice guy. Seems to complain a lot, but nice all the same. He must be really hurtin' for a sale. I consider stringing him along, humouring him, but that seems cruel.
"No, I'll call you." Maybe I could have asked more questions, gotten into it a little more. Perhaps I could have taken an active interest in the car past how fast it would go, but I don't care about any of that. It's just so hard to think of anything other than the fact that it's Monday.
"Maybe you should slow down." That's Derek Lascelle, the salesman that's given me the keys to something that goes faster than is safe. If I wanted to go slower I would have asked for a salesgirl.
"What?" The sunroof is open. I don't see why he opened it when we were on the highway. The tinny rattling of the wind blowing into the backseat doesn't highlight the classiness or luxury that comes with having a sunroof.
"Please slow down." I look at the speedo. It's a solid 160. I like to go fast. This is why I drive a sunfire; more than four cylinders and I'd probably be dead by now. This thing has six. Wheeeeee.
"OK." I slow down to 120. I like this car. The interior is black, a very shiny black. I like shiny. The model looks like a generic Grand Am, nothing very fancy, and as Derek is going on his spiel about how GM has overhauled it's designs, I note that they haven't tried very hard. But it's red. I like red. Red is fast. I like fast. I'm glad I had the foresight to leave my Mastercard at home. This was well before Derek let me test drive the car. Back when he was smiling.
I pull back onto 34th ave. Derek's grip on the door handle loosens as we get nearer to Southgate Pontiac, Buick, GM.
"Should I pull it around?" I ask.
"You can leave it here." I half expect him to cross himself as he gets out of the car.
If things didn't seem to go as smoothly as he hoped they would (I thought everything went fine), it's his fault. He gave me the keys. Ask. They'll tell you. I am not to drive. I've been asked how much I had to pay the guy administering my road test for a pass. I have people sign a waiver before they get in my car.
No. That's a lie. Non-fiction, right, I remember now.
"So...Should I give you a call in a couple a days?" I feel bad that I'm not buying this car. He's a pretty nice guy. Seems to complain a lot, but nice all the same. He must be really hurtin' for a sale. I consider stringing him along, humouring him, but that seems cruel.
"No, I'll call you." Maybe I could have asked more questions, gotten into it a little more. Perhaps I could have taken an active interest in the car past how fast it would go, but I don't care about any of that. It's just so hard to think of anything other than the fact that it's Monday.
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