True Life: I Want to Marry A Canadian

Except, not a French Canadian

After countless hours and research and compiling data from the leading dating researchers (i.e. watching reruns of “The Millionaire Matchmaker”) I have decided what I have been looking for all along was right in front of me. I need to marry a Canadian. With my efforts to find a Jewish husband thwarted, I have turned to our neighbors to the north in an effort to wife myself up. So if you’re reading this and you’re Canadian, take note. There’s a moderately good-looking, alcoholic with abandonment issues to the south of you who is waiting for you to put a ring on it.

Here’s why I believe I Canada is the new frontier for dating.

There’s no language barrier. True, if I were to start dating a Canadian I would technically be dating a foreigner, but I would be dating someone who spoke the same language as me. So, you have the appeal of dating someone from another country with none of the hassle of having to learn another language. And you all know how lazy I am; learning a new language at this stage of my life is completely off the table. However, it would be lovely if our Arctic friends could learn how to pronounce vowels. It’s aboUt not abOOt.

No one loves fucking tourists more than I do. If I were to meet a Canadian in say…the middle of Times Square looking for a Broadway show, I could quickly fall in love and do the long distance thing and not have to travel that far. Unless they live near the North Pole. Santa lives in Canada, right?

Santa may live in Canada. I’d be closer to presents if I were to move.

Free health care. If I were to marry a Canadian and move to Canada I could get free health care. If I were date one long distance, I could get free prescription drugs smuggled to me from up north to take care of my undiagnosed adult ADD, my undiagnosed multiple personality disorder and the gout I will no doubt eventually acquire because I am a seventy-five year old Jewish woman trapped in a well toned twenty-eight year old gay man’s body.

They’re passive aggressive. I could pretty much boss my Canadian boyfriend around with little to no retaliation on his part. Isn’t that what the US government does to Canada anyway?

They have disco fries…everywhere. Apparently, disco fries were not invented in New Jersey, as I had once thought. Disco fries are actually a dish the Canadians like to call “poontang” or something to that affect. There are culinary wonders to behold beneath the maple leafs.

My favorite people are Canadian. My roommate and lesbian life partner is from Canada. And he has lived with me and put up with my shit for over two years now with little to no complaining at all. Boa is also a Canadian. Asian, but Canadian nonetheless. And while both have refused sexual advances from me at numerous times, they’ve stuck around through thick and thin regardless of my borderline retarded behavior.

I could get into hockey if the price was right. There is something particularly sexy about grown men kicking the shit out of each other.

Their friendly and don’t talk shit behind your back like myself and the rest of us dumb Americans do.

Feeding the retarded child I will sooner or later get my hands on with maple syrup and Canadian bacon is so much better than the gross ass cereal I had to eat as a child.

So if you’re there God, it’s me, Mark. Please send a hot ass Canadian across the border to rescue me from all of the horrible American men who have done nothing but provide me with blog material.