Canadian fakin’

by RAF KATIGBAK

I’m a bad Canadian. I admit it. It’s not that I don’t like Canada. You know, hockey is pretty fun and I guess geese are pretty amazing (especially with a little orange glaze and on a bed of lightly buttered spinach), but I’m just not very good at being Canadian. What does that even mean? Let’s define the term: any kid will tell you Canadians are nice, tolerant and multi-cultural. While I can’t say that I don’t look multicultural (ask Sean Lennon), the fact is, I’m pretty much a suburban white guy who just happens to know how to cook rice perfectly every time.

When it comes to being nice, despite my affable outward appearance, I have a real dark side. In fact, I revel in misdeeds like cutting in front of old ladies waiting for the bus if they take too long with their walkers, and when people stroll up to the 12 Items or Less aisle with a suspiciously full-looking basket, I count their groceries. I don’t like to start a ruckus if they’re over the limit, I just look shocked and dart my eyes between their cart and the sign over and over. I do this in an exaggerated manner so that even though they look at me like I have some kind of disturbing facial tick, I know in their heart they feel the burning wrath of my eye-justice. Oh, and sometimes I like to punch toddlers for no real reason.

When it comes to being tolerant, I’m pretty much the most intolerant person I know. Beyond being slightly lactose intolerant (anyone else think YOP is a conspiracy to sell expired milk?), I also can’t stomach people. More specifically, I can’t stand young people. Even more specifically, I can’t stand tweens. Actually, to be even more specific, I can’t stand tweens from Beaconsfield. Well, to be fully honest I can’t stand a particular tween from Beaconsfield named Lindsay Waterson—she called my niece “chubby” and gave her a complex about it and I’m soooo gonna tell her crush Bobby Iverson that she drew a picture of him and her going to the winter carnival together and that is soooo never going to happen in a million trillion years because she’s the fat one and her breath stinks and she’s dumb.

But the reason I’m really a bad Canadian, isn’t because I believe people should understand what an Express Checkout Line means, or that I know Lindsay Stupid-Twaterson will never ever get married or have a boyfriend or ever kiss a guy—I’m really a bad Canadian because I hate the CBC.

Well, not all of the CBC. I find listening to CBC radio—despite everyone having that same strange neutered intonation—comforting. But when it comes to the TV wing of our national broadcaster, I get a cringe-y feeling. Particularly with their comedy shows. I know Canadians are capable of good stuff. Kids in the Hall is still one of the funniest shows of all time. And SCTV is pretty hilarious. But come on, Little Mosque on the Prairie? Really?

But maybe that show just isn’t meant for me. Maybe it’s for people out there who grew up on the rib-tickling hilarity of Wayne and Schuster. Maybe I should be watching something more hip and edgy? Like The Hour with George Stroumboulopoulos. Ummmm, or not. Can I just take a second to say how painful it is to watch that show? One time, my sister’s boyfriend told me how he was thrown off his motorcycle, landed crotch first on a wire fence, then fell off into a butcher’s waste bin. After watching Strombo get so excited about his next zinger of a question that he actually misses his guests’ often interesting answers, every freaking show, I kind of wish I was nursing my torn loins in a pile of festering meat instead. Whew. I feel better now that that’s off my chest. In all fairness, George does have some great guests and I’m definitely glad that his show exists. I just wish he’d turn down the Much Music VJ-knob on his delivery.

But is being Canadian all it’s cracked up to be anyway? The way I always liked defining Canadian doesn’t have anything to do with being especially nice to my fellow human or especially open to other cultures or especially liking some crappy mini-series set on a potato farm in the Maritimes. I’ve always liked to define being Canadian as a single simple qualifier: we’re not Americans.

Note: To paraphrase Sarah Silverman, I actually don’t really care about being identified as a Canadian, as long as I’m identified as thin.

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca