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Welcome to Canada, Imperialist Yankee Pig!

Ed. Note: Refreshed from his stint in an Edmonton detox clinic/psychiatric ward, Rex set off into the hinterlands to discover the "real Canada." What he found is disturbing beyond the ability of words to describe.

My initial impression of Alberta was that it reminded me of Kansas…minus the meth houses, militant Christian fundamentalists and rampant inbreeding. You know, all the things that make Kansas America's favorite tourist destination. The wide-open spaces along the US border are populated almost exclusively by polite, white farmers with a certain frontier "can-do" spirit that make Alberta what it is today; quite possibly the most mind-numbingly dull place in this or any other universe. Still, as the authorities had made it clear after I was discovered nude and semi-conscious in the alleyway of a seedy Edmonton neighborhood, I was not to leave the province until their public indecency investigation was complete, I decided to make the best of my extended visit. The nice desk sergeant at the police department helpfully suggested that I "get lost," and so I decided to do just that.

"Lost" is exactly where I found myself, or as it's charmingly called on the map, "Mooseknuckle." How I arrived at this town of one stoplight, two churches and seven-hundred-and-fifty-two thousand bars is a tale for another day, but suffice to say if you're ever offered a ride by a drunk Inuit driving a van with a "gas, grass or ass: nobody rides for free" bumper sticker, politely decline. In any event, Mooseknuckle is plopped down like a frozen pile of dog turd just west of the Rockies and slightly east of the deepest pit of hell. Citizens of Cleveland can, and do, make fun of Mooseknuckle without irony. If I owned hell and Mooseknuckle, I'd live in hell and burn Mooseknuckle down just to watch the flames.

All of that said, the town does have its charms…and by "charms," I of course am referring to the aforementioned bars. Alcohol, you see, can not only make a hideous woman palatable, it can make Mooseknuckle seem like Vegas. Thus, I barged into The Caribou Club, a dive on the outskirts of town, intent on getting so snookered that I could imagine the backseat awkward sex I'd have later with a local was like bedding a buxom babe at the Bellagio. As I entered, I had to admit that the place was not what I expected. It had a certain dungeon-motif thing going on, for one thing. Also, it smelled strongly of fried goat and fetid hummus. On the plus side, the staff and the clientele were all wearing S&M outfits that left little to the imagination. On the negative side, they were, without exception, gruesomely ugly. Gruesomely ugly men. Gruesomely ugly Iranian men, dressed in leather, and smelling of fried goat and fetid hummus. In the middle of rural Canada, I'd found a Iranian gay S&M club.

I think I heard my liver vomit, and my penis weep.

Still, this was a bar, and bars have alcohol, right? All was not lost. "Whiskey, please," I instructed the barkeep while maintaining eye contact, lest he think he might get lucky. "Make it a triple. Pour me one every 5 minutes until I pass out, and then every 10 minutes." Once I had enough to get a decent buzz on (i.e. 20 or so,) I had enough liquid courage to make some inquiries. "So," I asked the leather-thonged gentlemen on the stool next to me, who, had it not been for the beard and, you know, the penis, might be mistaken in the right light for Megan Fox' extremely ugly grandmother, "a gay Iranian S&M club. In Mooseknuckle. Mooseknuckle, Canada. Um, WTF?!?" He smiled, checked me out (who can blame him? I'm gorgeous,) and removed the ball-gag from his mouth.

"Have you not heard? The fabulous gay Iranian revolution has come to Canada! We're here, we're queer, we love Molson beer!" To prove the point he chugged the full mug in front of him, and did so with flair. "Finally, we have flexed our well-oiled muscles and invaded another nation. Soon, every bar in Canada will be this fabulous and goat-smelling!" He slammed down his beer before passing out onto the floor where, in deference to his faith, he was at least facing Mecca.

Could this be true? Had Canada, the Chuck Norris of nations, been overrun by Iranians with an impeccable sense of style? Impossible! Still, my journalistic integrity demanded that to be certain I had to check my sources, and punched into my cell phone the digits of the one Canadian whose heterosexuality I knew was impervious to the advances of even the sexiest Persian.



"Go for Shatner, you silly sexy man," the familiar voice lisped at the other end of the line. "Make it quick, though. I have goat frying on the stove and Grey's Anatomy comes on in a few minutes."

I downed another whiskey and resigned myself to the inevitable. "Barkeep! Bring me another whiskey….wait…no. Make it a mimosa, and make it fabulous!"

Rex Object welcomes his new gay Iranian overlords, but is this international ladies man willing to switch teams just on the off-chance it will earn his a few free mimosas? Subscribe and find out!