Maxed Out 

A time of rampant weirdness

I like sleeping on a hard bed as well as the next guy, at least as long as the next guy isn’t a swami or fakir or whoever those guys are who sleep on beds of nails and shards of glass. It’s not that I have a bad back, although I do believe sleeping on a soft bed is a key ingredient in developing one. The hard bed thing is just a personal choice, like black coffee instead of double-doubles. I don’t question it too deeply but I do recoil in horror whenever I plop myself onto someone else’s bed that wraps around me like I was the filling in a chalupa.

But this is ridiculous. I’m now sleeping on a bed with no mattress. It is way too hard.

I think I finally understand at least part of the problem Canada is suffering imagewise over our "porous" borders, you know, the ones that let in terrorists from all over the world. The problem is this: Canada is way more worried about keeping used mattresses out of the country than it is about keeping warlords, assassins, despots, bombmakers, terrorist cells, rabble-rousers and the rest of the world’s shit-disturbers on the other side of our borders.

Immigration ought to be run by Customs. That would solve the leaky borders thing. On Monday, everyone working in Customs should swap uniforms with someone the same size in Immigration and vice-versa.

Let’s review the evidence. Nine years ago, I moved a perfectly serviceable queensize bed out of my home in Toronto and into storage in New Mexico. The reasons seemed obvious to me – no one living in New Mexico is familiar with the words mould and mildew. Hot and dry, for sure, but mould and mildew are foreign concepts.

Earlier this week I tried to bring the same bed back into Canada along with a load of other household junk, er, treasures.

"Can’t let you bring the mattress across the border," the steely-eyed Customs officer said.

"Why not?"

"Health regulations. It’s unsanitary," he said in a voice made even cockier knowing he was hiding inside full body armour.

It didn’t matter that whatever cooties were on the mattress were my own and it certainly didn’t matter that anything possibly living on it would have died after seven days exposure to air, let alone nine years of storage in temperatures ranging from freezing to POW sweatbox. The fact is that no suspect American mites are going to get a chance to breed with little hockey sweater wearing Canadian mites as long as Customs is ever vigilant.

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