Thirty eight days after being sent forth to fulfill the longtime dream of the former Head Chef (Grandmaster Chef, lowly intern/petty criminal at obscure Troy branch, whatever) to conquer the frigid cluster of manners and maple syrup that is Canada, I concluded this country is in dire need of roasting. Seriously, it’s fucking cold up here.
First of all, I have terrible news. For all of Canada’s apparent modern advancements, what with their extensive and often needlessly elaborate recycling system, it seems their culture has not evolved to the most basic and essential element of society: sarcasm. I would trade all the toques, Timbits, and even some of the time Trump isn’t all over the news just for people not to say “Really?” when you tell them, say, that because you`re American, you’re always armed. No, not really. Come on, common sense.
Along the same lines, there’s another atrocity that you never seem to miss until it’s been ripped away from you and replaced with a shitty imitation…. the pizza. I know. How hard is it to get pizza right? Evidently, extremely difficult. To give you an idea of what I`m dealing with here, the toppings? You know, the stuff that goes on TOP of a pizza, above the cheese and all that? Buried under everything, smothered beneath the sauce. It’s basically a war crime. Oh, and to make it worse, everything is that deep dish madness that doesn’t deserve to be allowed to categorize itself anywhere near a self-respecting New York Pizza. This is supposed to be Canada, not Chicago.
To refrain from sounding too much like OPC (no offense to you at all, by the way, bud. Keep being you), I`ll let it slide that Canadians seem to think things like being on a college campus is permission to act like extras from High School Musical or Pitch Perfect, George Washington was a greedy real estate agent, and that THEY burned the White House down in the War of 1812. Oh, and due to some careless biology students several years ago, there are ex-lab test subjects, primarily deer, that have reproduced unchecked and now overrun the area. Since the population of Canada is 40% bears, 30% moose (meese?), 15% beavers, 5% trees, 9.9% hippies, and now .1% dragons, there is no real natural predator for them. Well, there wasn’t, until I discovered that without boiler room interns to devour, they work in a pinch.
However, there’s something even better than radioactive deer or the slop masquerading as pizza to eat up here. Tim Hortons, aka the promised land, aka everything the Greenville Dunkin never was, and everything they could ever hope to be, if any of the employees actually had ambition. Although, I doubt any of their puny imaginative abilities could have envisioned such a paradise as Timmy’s. Yes, Timmy’s. This is the one aspect of Canadian culture that is to be wholeheartedly embraced. It is difficult, nay, impossible to do it justice in any amount of words or characters. It must only be experienced in its truest form; the low prices must be seen with your own eyes, the food tasted with your own food orifice, the astonishing truth behind the employee’s “Have a nice day, eh?” heard with your own ears. Get thee to a Timmy’s. You will not regret it (not sponsored, but I am most definitely open to any and all sponsorship gigs Tim Hortons deigns to throw my way).
I have to say, I had some doubts about flying up here, after all, without me, who will keep the boiler room interns in check? Without me, their population will surely exponentiate unmanageably. Or, at least, their life insurance bills will. But then, somehow (say what you will about Canada, but it’s surprising how connected to US politics they are….probably because they have nothing interesting of their own going on) news traveled up of the figurative and literal dumpster fires of the 2016 election, and I knew it was best to keep a distance.
To everyone still back at the Macaroni offices, I would like to extend my sympathy and luck. With the abdication of the Head Chef, “DEATH TO THE NHS” banners and the dankest of memes began disappearing over the summer, and I can only imagine what the regime of the dictatorial Kitchenette Intern has done to the place. Who could blame the Mail Room VP for disappearing when he did? Co-Chefs… it was doomed from the start. There can only be one, and I have no doubt the Kitchenette Dictator has cooked up something to ensure it stays that way. What a shame power had to come between such a promising partnership.
Anyway, I have Timmy’s to eat and a gang of territorial beavers to roast (and sarcasm to pursue, almost certainly in vain…), so I`ll leave this here for now.