Canada

Considering I was both ill and drunk for almost the entire work week, when Jeff Pratherton told me to put on a suit and come to Canada I was more than ready to get the fuck out of the country.

Jeff, Jordan, and I made it over the bridge at about 6:00. Unfortunately we did not make it past the end of the bridge for a solid hour. There must be something about three boys dressed in suits (one also in a top hat and bowtie) who are sitting in a messy-as-hell black Saturn listening to Irish drinking songs on full blast that makes you just want to flex your big ol' Border Patrol guns and search them real good. The guy didn't even bother doing the halfhearted search himself, he sent us right to the If You Have Any Drugs You Are Now Officially Fucked facility with a big yellow note under our windshield wiper. Luckily all we had at the time was a Nalgene bottle Jordan had forgotten and left on the floor half full of Citron. We were only worried that it would probably qualify as an open container of alcohol and there was a brief spat over whether to drink it immediately, pour it out on the floor, or all commit suicide on the spot. They searched the whole car pretty thoroughly but left the bottle alone. I'd like to say that anyone who bought a passport just to go to Canada wasted their $90 or whatever it is. I got through the actual immigration office with a driver's license and an expired student ID.

Parking at Windsor Casino is free, so as always we parked in one of their structures. My sense of direction around the main strip in Windsor is getting better each time I go and we found the Irish pub (whose sign I finally read and is called Ryan's) with no difficulty besides the consistent freezing crosswind. As is required every time we go to the pub we ordered three pints of Guinness. Draft Guinness continued to be the tastiest milkshake of a beer ever, and even Jordan enjoyed it and ordered another one. He and Jeff ordered some overpriced pub food and I settled for my pint and a sampler of beers that they serve in four glasses on a wooden paddle. I enjoyed the Harp's, but the other three weren't all that impressive (and obviously their names were also non-memorable). Conversation-wise, we just caught up on things and speculated on how Jeff's younger brother was doing in the looney bin. By the time we were ready to leave the pub everyone was sporting a decent buzz, and against our waitress's better judgement we headed to Voodoo well before 10:30.

The built-in Canadian Clubbing GPS in my head didn't fail me and after passing the Honest Lawyer, which our waitress had recommended on probably good knowledge, we arrived at Voodoo. Apparently it was ladies and men-in-suits in free before 9:30. Jeff and I started throwing money around and slurping down Coronas at what we thought was a pretty brisk pace. Jordan, however, was on a goddamn MISSION. He drank two beers for every one of ours and once he got bored of that he opened up a tab at the bar and started ordering Goose/cranberries, each of which did not touch his lips more than once before being empty. Around a half hour after we got to the club who should walk through the door but the one and only DavePo, complete with the Jimmy, Ethan, and Paul Allen ensemble. We drank and chatted for awhile and it came to light that the red trucker hat (with white lettering that says "Kentucky" in the shape of a horse) Dave had been wearing for the past several months in actuality belonged to Jordan, so he took it back and I have to admit poor DavePo's head looked naked without it.

DP & Co. didn't stay too long and by the time the club was full we were up from our table and in our favorite spot on the Clubbin' Venn Diagram, where the dance floor and bar overlap and you can mingle while still ordering drinks. I should mention that by the time we left our table it was littered with the carcasses of at least four cranGeese, and that since we were in the perfect spot on the floor once we got up Jordan ordered another two or three in a row interspersed with several neon Jager tubes from the shot girl. By the time we realized how drunk he was he had left to go to the bathroom. Needless to say he never came back. Jeff and I stayed in the same place waiting for about an hour and a half with frequent rescue sweeps around the club. The guy was just nowhere to be found and we started worrying that he had fallen and hit his head or gotten himself arrested or sommat. All of a sudden in a club that never calls anyone anywhere because it would interrupt the music, the PA system is saying, "JEFF PRATHER TO THE FRONT DOOR." The Look is exchanged and we walk out of the club prepared for blood and guts and possibly bail. The courteous but efficient Canadian police officer asks if we know Jordan and then leads us into the alley beside the club where Jordan is slumped over at a small concrete table completely surrounded in fluorescent vomit and covered in a half inch of snow (1.27cm since we're still in Canada at this point). My first instinct is that he is totally dead. Fortunately that was not the case and the police were just trying to make sure he didn't pee in the street. After some minor difficulty we got him into the standing/walking position and began our stumbly-ass journey back to the casino.

The parking structure became somewhat more confusing than usual because my Internal Canadian Travel Guide was a little soaked in alcohol. We still found the car and sat in it for awhile recovering from the cold and arranging our cigarettes. Jordan laid in the back seat and was completely out of comission through our drive back toward the bridge and our stop at McDonald's to eat a hamburger and watch some Aqua Teen on his iPod. At the point where he was required to wake up (a.k.a. when the big sassy black lady at the US customs booth told us to, "open that back window the HELL up") he pulled himself up to the edge of the window and proceeded to give the greatest answers that have probably ever been given at a customs check. Here is as much as I can remember because I was laughing so hard:

Customs: Citizenships?
Jeff and me: US
Jordan: CANADAAA!
Customs: You're from Canada?
Jordan: CANADA.
Jeff and me (sort of discreetly): Say the fucking US!
Customs: So where were you born?
Jordan: VOODOO!!
Customs: *starts laughing*
Jordan: *leans all the way out the window* BANANA FARM!!! ...*then with a serious face* Banana farm.
Jeff and me: Sorry, ma'am.
Customs: Get outta here.



Oh my God, I've been writing for two hours and fifteen minutes.
Let's hear it for never being able to sleep for various reasons.