Torched Laughter Studio Diary: Finely Tuned Meat

`Finely Tuned Meat’ can be summed up by the below anecdote.

My father was enduring colon cancer a few years ago. At the same time, another loved one was undergoing a horrific drug therapy as prescribed by a doctor. The therapy wreaked holy hell on the person’s body and mind. You probably know someone who has to suffer these types of drug therapies. I describe pharmaceutical practices like this: they destroy a house to save a wall.

It was an intense time. Dancing around verbal land mines and trying not to trip into my own pit of overactive fears. I don’t think there was any positivity to be found at that time. Though I had my health and an overactive imagination which I can escape into, I felt guilty for having them. The same could not be said for those around me.

Fortunately for my father, his cancer was caught fairly early and was to undergo surgery to rid his body of it. I made plans to fly back to the USA to be by his side, take care of day to day things around the parent’s house, etc.

I took a direct flight from Toronto to Newark. After being greeted by the friendly Canadians at Air Canada who thought I was someone famous (LOL,) I had to deal with the US Homeland Security `Team.’ After one question asked by the posturing-lackey-in-a-booth regarding my citizenship I was whisked away to a white room. Mind you, I was still on Canadian soil, but these garden variety shitnecks knew how to make you feel like you were in Guantanamo Bay.

I watched several Homeland Security people walk by with their smarmy purposeful smiles. These underdeveloped slackasses landed the greatest pay day of their lives: A useless government job. In walks my interrogator: A nerdy-looking mushmouth who couldn’t hide the fact he wallows in Buffalo.

He spent about 5 minutes trying to set up his Web cam. Clumsy dough-boy hands trying to reconcile a USB cable and the mysterious term `Plug and Play.’ It was crucial that I be filmed. I hope someone in the quality assurance department is jacking it to my annoyed face and long flowing locks.

After his technical triumph with the webcam, I was asked a flurry of useless questions from his pre-printed interrogation sheet. Most I can no longer remember. The point of the questions was to aggravate me. I kept my cool despite my plane leaving shortly and thinking about how my father must be feeling right now. Finally mush mouth asks me a relevant question.

Mushmouth will be played by America’s sweetheart Joseph McCarthy.
I will be again, played by my much cuter 4 year old self.

Why did you leave the United States?
Because I wanted to go home. I am a citizen of Canada.

Did you tender your Green Card?
 No one asked for it.
Why didn’t they ask?
 I do not know, ask them. (Canadian Customs)
Do you have your greencard now?

No. Why would I need it if I am a Canadian entering the USA?
Because you need to tender it.
Well, I did not know that. Do you have a mailing address so I can send it back?
No.
Shocker.

Then things took yet another ominous turn:

You do realize that I cannot allow you into the country unless you pay a 250 dollar re-entry fee?
No, I did not realize that. And I find that utterly farcical. I am not paying 250 bucks to visit your country.
Well, you then need to sign an affidavit that you relinquish all your resident alien rights to the USA.
That’s fine. I kind of did that when I didn’t bother to return after 30 days after landing in Canada.
The only way you can be a resident of the USA again is if you are sponsored by US Residents.
That’s fine. Easy enough.
 Is it?
Yes.
You will have to face a judge.
Ok.
(shrugs) Suit yourself
No. You already put the suit on me.
..
..
.. You will have to face a judge.

So I signed this affadavit. I still carry it with me in case yet another US customs officer has a hissy fit.

Then Mushmouth got out of his chair and proceeded to this big arcade computer called Magic. Mushmouth then started asking financial information regarding my parents in the 80’s. This hardened cyst of stupid was quizzing me.

How much did your father make in 1986?
I don’t know. I was a child. And what does this have to do with anything regarding my residency? This is invasive and useless. 
I see.

To this day I am disturbed by that Magic Software Interface. I can’t look at a Zaxxon arcade without thinking it may be holding every piece of personal information about myself and my family.  

 

There were more questions. Questions I cannot remember but I assume I answered them correctly.  Because after it was all done he said I could leave. Not once did this vomitous hole look me in the eye. 

All of this took about an hour.

I barely made my flight. The Air Canada stewardesses actually told to me run in order to catch it. It took the entire 1 hour flight to calm the hatred coursing through my body, but once I landed in scenic Newark, my priorities shifted back to what mattered.

I’m sorry emigrating from the USA has hurt its government’s feelings so much.

AMERICA! LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT PUNK!!!

Ok. I left.

Sniff…WHY?

I’m running out of steam here, so I’ll sum the rest up.

The time spent in the US was tense. Endless worry surrounding the surgery and the mounting tensions back home in Canada. Things came to a head in the waiting room at the hospital. Like automatic writing, a cautionary statement flowed out of me. Mixed with anger and fear. I titled it `Finely Tuned Meat.’ A derisive analogy for people who love each other and the disastrous consequences that can arise.
As soon as it was completed I received news that the surgery was a success. Since then my father has been cancer free. I was overjoyed, but the insufferable goth in me also found it bittersweet. If only the other person in my life was able to receive such prompt and effective treatment.

Post-surgery observation: Parents on morphine rule.

This post is not the epic emotional rollercoaster that I wanted it to be. The daily vocal tracks and last minute rewrites have taken their toll. On that note, I need sleep.

~ by ikonowerk on March 12, 2008.