Growing up in Canada, every young lady and gentleman holds an ever so slight disdain for America; they’re bigger, more attractive (Montreal being the exception), wealthier, and they get all the girls.
I, however, never really felt this disdain.
While some of my peers would go on about America forcing itself on other countries, eating up the world’s resources, and being fat, I sat idly by, memorizing the capital of every state and learning everything I could about our Fair Friends to the South.
I’ve always been a true supporter of the American way; I recently came to the realization that there’s nothing I love more than the idea of small towns and county fairs, where boys bring the girl they’re “goin’ steady with” in hopes of gaining that heavily sought after first kiss.
At the next fair, who knows, maybe they’ll get their first hand jibber behind the hall of mirrors (or, if you share my tastes, inside the hall of mirrors so you get the IMAX experience).
Finally, the next fair comes; it’s the 4th of July and you’re prancing about, hand in hand, nary a care in your adorable little head.
Her hands are soft and perfect.
She’s wearing her polka dot dress that she sewed herself.
You’ve got a crew-cut and a buttoned up polo shirt.
There’s magic in the air.
You find a good spot to watch the fireworks and you kiss passionately, as this may be your last night together (oh yeah, it’s 1944 and you may be sent to war tomorrow). As you feel her hip, she grabs your hand. You assume she’s telling you to stop assaulting her hip, but she leads you to the Ferris wheel, where you can see your whole hometown from the top. She then proceeds to give you her virginity (apparently, she had paid that handsome carny to “lose power” when you hit the top (pun intended).
You picked the right girl. Oh—also, her name is Emmy Lou, an adorable country name that Canadian men can only find in Prince Edward Island.
Then again, though, they’re ALL the right girl.
And that’s when I realized that I FINALLY have a reason to hate America.
See, while America was off inventing the cutest, most passionate and adorable ways to make sweet love to each other for the first time, we Canadians—lacking the degree of patriotism that allows for the “GIVE YOUR VIRGINITY TO UNCLE SAM” mentality—were stuck awkwardly banging each other for the first time in the following ways:
1) On futons;
2) At shitty college parties (’cause our college parties aren’t nearly as good as the ones we see in Old School and Animal House);
3) On the living room couch while Mom is upstairs and Dad and your sister are downstairs;
4) The backseat of a car (but not in a sexy American backseat sex way, rather in an awkward hodge-podge of mildly unattractive appendages and extremities).
While they’re off feeling up Canada’s beloved Rachel McAdams on the floor of an abandoned something or other in that movie that was overrated, we’re having unprotected sex and getting everybody pregnant, ’cause that’s how Canadian luck goes (sexually, at least.)
No matter how hard we try in Canada, we just can’t seem to get it right. America’s got it down to a science; a careful and intricate mating dance that involves long gazes into one another’s eyes, smooth circumventions of ones body by another’s moisturized hands, and slow, rhythmic movements.
In Canada, slow, rhythmic movements are called shit sex delivered by an utter moron. We don’t even give the word shit the luxury of an extra “ty” at the end.
It’s just shit.
I’ve come to the conclusion that Americana, something that I join Americans in adoring and appreciating, has ruined my (and, as the official spokesman of our fair country, all of Canada’s) love of ones virginity (or lack thereof).
This is likely because I know that if I were still of a suitable age to be deflowering girls, not only would the fair be second rate, but the fireworks would be nothing special, the ferris wheel would break and roll into the river, my girlfriend’s hands would be clammy, the sex would be mediocre at best, she’d get pregnant immediately, and, thanks to Canadian luck (mixed with the luck derived from my Jewish heritage), I’d most likely be the first person conscripted since 1944.
Am I jealous of America? You betcha.
Am I jealous of anything of any importance? Absolutely, if you’re like me and have been dreaming of your first time since you were 4, (that’s a lie; the first time I thought about sex was at 24 (exactly one year from now)), only to have those dreams dashed down by the creaks of rusty beds and the collective silence of unsatisfied women from Kamloops to Cape Breton.
America, I adore you for celebrating in such grand fashion the deflowering of your women.
You can keep the larger population, the better vacation spots, the overly impressive military, the tremendous folklore and history, and the overwhelmingly better diners, but please, for the love of all that is good and fair, give me back my goddamned virginity.