What happens when you let a rural Canadian Redneck loose in Los Angeles for a few days?

Nothing good I assure you.

Sure I sweet talked Donald Sutherland as he stood before me in the security line and cooed over my radiant beauty (okay, he said I was cute. I may be using some artistic license here,) while he fondled my tattoos (okay so maybe fondle is too strong of a word. Perhaps he merely glanced down and commented that he liked them,) hence distracting him with my sparkling personality so much so he forgot to take the coins out of his pocket and the three foot long Samurai sword he had tucked in the back of his pants thereby landing him straight into the Do Not Pass Go Line in airport Security as they snapped the rubber gloves on and cackled maniacally.

I got to meet Donald Sutherland. While admittedly, he isn’t quite as sexy as his son Kiefer, he is a Canadian icon worthy of immediate texting and bragging to my husband.

I’m sure Donald Sutherland probably wishes he spent a little less time talking flirting with me after he was bent over by an rather large security officer with a sincere lack of humour.

And this was the high point of my trip. It only got lower from there.

The trip started out on a somber note, as I prepared to face my own nightmarish demons and little boy ghost as I attended the beautiful goodbye celebration my friends held for their baby daughter. I knew this trip wasn’t going to be a boat load of tickles and giggles but I totally underestimated just how shat-tastic my karmic adventures could go.

(I no longer believe in karma by the way. I use to like to sprinkle pixie dust and rainbow glitter  where ever I went believing that karmic purity will find it’s way back to me eventually.  But then the Universe confused all my joyous glittery karmic goodness with that of a festering, pus leaking boil and repaid my karmic intentions with a slap upside the head and a boot up the arse. A big waggling middle finger to you Karmic Universe. I renounce you.)

Ahem.

First there was the car accident. Oh ya. This is what happens when a Canadian redneck is set loose upon American traffic, more specifically the 405. Let’s just saying the traffic on a Yankee freeway is decidedly different than driving on a dusty gravel back road dodging a few moose and white tail deer.

What the hell is up with those damn red light thingymajigs on the exit ramp as you merge onto the highway? Why can’t you be more like Canadians who simply slap up a yield sign which is promptly ignored as we gun it and cut off any and all oncoming traffic? That’s half the fun of merging. Counting the number of birds flipped at you and listening to the melodic harmonies of horns blaring.

Really. You Yanks suck the fun out of everything.

After a slight fender bender (oh okay, fine. There was no fender left. Nor a front end. Let’s just say the piddly ass rental car I was in crumpled like an egg being hurled at a brick wall) I then got an up close and personal lesson with Southern California Highway police. Nice uniforms by the way. I, personally, would have chose a colour other than khaki, perhaps a festive purple because purple makes everyone smile but hey, to each their own.

A big friendly Canadian hello to a certain Officer Carter who not only didn’t ticket us after playing bumper cars during rush hour but also graciously spoke on my cell phone to give the rental company accurate directions to where the remains of our car lay littered over the freeway and where I happened to be strolling along side traffic pretending to be an exotic hooker with a limp.

Then came my trip to the LAX, where I anxiously waited to fly home and away from freaky traffic lights, six lane freeways and rental cars resembling crumpled Easter eggs. Wherein I met the aforementioned Donald Sutherland.

I then promptly had to go pee from the excitement of the moment. (Don’t judge me people. I’ve squeezed out three nine pound babies.) Shortly after exiting the washroom, my traveling buddy and doppelganger Mr. Lady was robbed of her passport and boarding pass by a lunatic with grey hair and teal sneakers.

You know what happens when a passport gets swiped in the departing lounge of LAX? Picture total lockdown and armed guards rushing around with M16′s. Well, okay, maybe that only happened in my head. What really happened was Mr. Lady broke down in the ugly cry and I ran to vomit in the nearest sink because oh my hell, Mr. Lady is a freaking American hiding out in Canada and the nearest thing I have to a next door neighbour and Canada WON’T LET HER BACK IN!

As they were leading Mr. Lady down to the dungeon below to torture and rape her file a police report, a security officer grabbed my elbow and lead me kicking and screaming to my gate. There is nothing quite like being perp walked down an airport runway because some silly over anxious American security officer is worried I’ll make a run for it and try and smuggle my doppelganger across the border.

Then to add insult to injury, as the plane was taxiing down the runway and catching the wind beneath it’s wings (sorry, I couldn’t resist) I felt something funny down in my lady bits. 

Oh for Gawd sake, Mother Freaking Nature decided to knock on my door a few days early and deposit Aunt Flo on my door step like some unwanted relative. Great. Getting up and hobbling to the bathroom while managing to knock two dudes in the back of the head with my gigantic purse I discover the loo is out of business. 

When I finally manage to waddle off the plane with a roll of toilet paper shoved down my pants, I actually considered kissing my beloved Canadian soil. But I was a little worried about bending over at that point. So I drove to my parents house to pick up my beloved dogs before being reunited with my children.

Imagine my surprise to find my darling little puppy has morphed into a woman in my absence. Poor little Nixon the World’s Greatest Dog, Ever. looked on in horror as he watched the free sex show his room mate was putting on.

I raced out of my truck when I drove up because I saw my poor sweet baby was being raped. By her DADDY. Yelling at the horny dogs proved fruitless as they were stuck together. I raced inside and tearfully explained to my father that his dog Rupert was raping my dog, his daughter, and I really didn’t want Rupert to be my dog’s baby daddy as well as their grandfather.

“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” my dad chuckled.

“Um, I don’t know, stop your dog from impregnating my dog!” I yelled back.

“Toss some cold water on them and they’ll go their separate ways,” he helpfully responded.

Thinking this was a brilliant solution, I grabbed the dog dish filled with water and ran outside where I dumped it on the two dogs. 

“Oh great. Now I have two wet dogs humping madly. Why don’t I just provide some lube and turn on some Barry White for them while they’re at it,” I moaned as my dad just about fell over from laughter.

After fruitless efforts of trying to coax the dogs apart – including actually picking up my dog only to have her daddy firmly stay where he was implanted and just sort of dangle behind her (bastard wasn’t letting go no matter what) I eventually just gave up, sat down and waited for them to finish up.

I am now the proud owner of one dog impregnated with what is most likely to be two headed babies. Free to the first ones who ask, y’all. 

My trip to America couldn’t have ended on any other note, I thought to myself as I finally sat down in my own house, on my own couch. It was like insult to injury with each step I made on my way home. You might think America was punishing me for leaving. Or entering. Either way, it felt like I was getting boot f*cked.

Thank goodness that’s all over, I thought to myself as I grabbed my laptop to tweet about my two headed puppies to be and how Karma really kicked my ass over the past two days.

Right then I opened my laptop to discover it died a mysterious death while I was busy terrorizing the USA.

It was the icing on a miserable cake from start to finish. So I did the only thing I could to make myself feel better. I opened up a box of wine and broke out the cheese spray and crackers.

It was good to be home. America hates me. And Karma really is a bitch.