Baby We Were Born To Run For The Border


Thus endith my week of comics, non-comics and comic-like entities dealing with my trip to Canada. The above comic is a 98% true account (with a +/- 2% margin of exaggeration) of my border crossing experience.


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The Canadian border official treated us like human beings, who were welcomed into his country and encouraged to spend our bland, greenish monies at their many fine establishments. He did want to make sure that we were attempting to procure gainful Canadian employment surreptitiously, but he was never anything but polite. He even laughingly commented about how there seemed to be a lot of people coming over for the comic con.

The US border agent treated us like terrorists. Worse, he treated us like our faces were dusted with cocaine, our pockets were brimming with knock-off boner pills, and our trunk was bulging with far too many severed torsos. All of his questions were accusatory, his tone was immediately angry and he was a fucking asshole. Let me remind you that we were trying to re-enter our OWN country. Next time I drive back into the US from Canada I’m just going to have my dick’n balls out. Just right on my lap. When the border agent asks me a question, I’ll point southward and politely ask that he address all inquiries to The Captain.