As mentioned in my list of things I learned up north, there be some assholes working at border control.
See, my darling friend Mantana and I made great time on our drive to Vancouver, until we got to the epically long line to get through border control from Washington to Canada. At this point we'd been in the car over ten hours, and we started to get delirious with impatience, and then rage as people started trying to cut in front of us.
We screamed obscenities out our open windows, to the amusement of other drivers nearby.
We started cracking incredibly inappropriate jokes.
Mantana decided the honk of a nearby ferry horn was "boat for 'fuck you!'".
We finally got to the point where we picked a line for the different terminals, and somehow, our line was the longest one. It crawled. And inched. Cars passed us by. We were starving and aching and desperate to drink the champagne we bought to celebrate Mantana's birthday. We couldn't stop laughing and whining at the same time.
We became convinced the geese were laughing at us.
The line, it crawled.
We finally made it to the front, and discovered quickly why our line was the slowest, why everyone had to sit so long at the booth before being waved on through.
Our officer was a DICK.
The second he learned Mantana was from Montana, he asked if she owned a gun. Yes. Was it in the car? No. Oh, but he insisted it was, and insisted so for at least five minutes, threatened her with federal prosecution at least twice if not three times, clearly getting off on the little bit of power he wielded.
"I'm an attorney, I know the laws," she insisted.
"You can search my car," she offered.
"Oh, I KNOW I CAN." He shot back.
This went on forever, he interrogated us about how we met (about which I swiftly lied, although I would have loved his reaction to "on a Weight Watchers message board"), he kept returning to "if you tell me now where the gun is, you won't be in trouble."
He finally let us go.
And didn't even ask about the crack we were carrying.