PRO SERIES: Driving To Canada On A Whim Part 12: Damned Ol’ Douche Nozzles

I stepped out into frigid, windy Winterpeg, on the last day of my first tour in Canada, and I thoughtfully assured myself, this ride home is going to f__king suck moose d__ks.

 

I jumped into the passenger side of  my travel companion, Sigmon’s, trusty German engineered vehicle. He hit the push starter and the car let out a sound like Bobcat Goldthwait choking on a kazoo. Siggy and I looked at eachother with here we go concern, but luckily the well crafted machine cleared her throat and let out a Katy-Perry-esque championship roar and we were off.

 

Off to the YMCA, where we put our already exhausted and beat down bodies through rigorous exercise, then nearly fell asleep in the hottub.

 

“I’m sure they’re done celebrating. Let’s go back and get a few more hours of sleep.” I begged Sigmon, in reference to the Canadian gold medal hockey hullabaloo that we had taken refuge from.

 

Sigmon looked as if he was about to tell me no, so I gave him my best pound puppy eyes.

 

“Guess it wouldn’t hurt to check.” He said, not sounding sure.

 

The jubilee had indeed lost all its juice and we stepped over passed out bodies to reach our respective rooms for an extra two-or-so hours of sleep before it was time to head to Beausejour, which is about an hour northeast of Winnipeg.

 

We took Sigmon’s car so we would be able to get on the road directly after the event, not realizing that we would have to drive right back through Winnipeg, afterwards.

 

Always an adventure.

 

We showed up to the Brokenhead Community Center early and helped set up the ring.

 

It was so cold that my gloves would stick to the pieces of steel ring frame that I was helping carry.  

 

After getting the ring setup, I got in, started stretching out and promptly fell asleep.

 

About one second into my impromptu, literal dream match with my fallen hero Eddie Guerrero the explosion of steel hitting steel from another wrestler falling to the canvas beside me caused me to sit up like the Undertaker, but with a less amused expression.

 

This drive home is going to suck sweet mapley sh__. I thought to myself.

 

I had the least memorable match of the tour with Nate Hardy, through no fault of his. We both worked hard, but the Sunday afternoon crowd was small and seemed as sleepy as I felt.

 

Sigmon had another match where he complained about his legs after. I gave him another smug start the tour off with a go-hard leg day he said, I’ll be fine he said look. He gave me another say something smart and you can use your fresh, skinny legs to walk right the 2,261 km (whatever the f__k that is in real units of measurement) back to your car in Knoxville look. I kept my mouth shut.

 

After the event, we were invited to a tour-end celebration at Hooters.

 

“I don’t want to go.” I told Sigmon.

 

“Me, either.” Sigmon told me.

 

“We’re going to go anyway to be polite, though, aren’t we?” I asked, defeatedly.

 

“We sure are, buddy.” Sigmon answered, defeatedly.

 

We got to Hooters, picked out seats at the pushed-together arrangement of tables where twentysome of our newly bonded brothers and sisters sat, we stared at menus through unfocusing eyes, and we ordered food.

 

Immediately after ordering I looked at Sigmon and asked, with a Roger-Rabbit-pppppplease tone and expression, “Can we cancel our orders and just leave?”

 

“We sure can, buddy.” Sigmon said compassionately.

 

We said our heartfelt, yet manly, goodbyes and were wished well on our travels.

 

I asked Sigmon if he wanted me to drive first, since I had gotten a little more sleep.

 

“Nah, I should be good for awhile.” He assured me.

 

On the way to the border Sigmon’s car decided that it f__king hated Canada and it’s f__king cold ass weather and gave an error code that said it was going to shut down.

 

Sigmon and I stared at each other. Neither daring to utter “always an adventure”, in hopes this was an avoidable adventure.

 

“Can we just keep driving till we can’t?” I asked hopefully.

 

“We sure can, buddy.” Sigmon said with a glint of insanity in his sleep deprived eyes.

 

The car made it to the border.

 

At least we don’t have to deal with those grumpy Canadian borderfolk, this round. I thought.

 

“Why were you traveling to Canada?” My fellow American borderman asked Siggy.

 

“Pro wrestling!” Sigmon said as enthusiastically as he could through his grogginess.

 

“Pull the vehicle forward. Park it. Get out. Come inside. Await further instructions.” The borderman said as unenthusiastically as he could in his alertness.

 

We pulled forward and parked, but before we got out and went inside Sigmon and I looked deeply into eachother’s eyes and said, in unison, “Always an adventure.”

 

“I sure hope the car starts when we get back in.” I said.

 

“Me, too, buddy. Me, too.” Sigmon said.

This drive home already sucks damned ol’ douche nozzles. I thought to myself, as we went inside the border crossing station to await further instruction.