Because I Want To

I rarely have trouble with Canada customs. Whenever I head over, it's almost universally a rubber stamp. Show my identification, answer a couple perfunctory questions, and they let me on my way. 

But yesterday heading to Windsor for an end of season curling dinner, wow. I had to draw a deep breath to keep my cool. 

After derisively commenting on the size of my newer older van, the 1996 Chevy conversion van which I bought off my brother-in-law, the little snot in the booth asked with no small amount of disdain, "Why aren't you driving a regular car?"

I tell you, and I mean this quite seriously, I was instantly enraged. It was a burning, deep anger right to the core of my being. What? Did I miss the memo that Marty can't drive his van to Canada? Has Parliament passed a law that henceforth and in perpetuity Charles Martin Cosgriff shalt ne'er again pilot the motor car of his choice into these Canadian Dominions? 

What's it to you what I drive, ya little punk? Different country or not, I don't have to justify this to you. I wanted to smack that sneer right off his face. I wanted to yell, "Because I %$@!!&! want to drive my van!" That's why I don't drive a regular car, whatever the hell you mean by that.

Instead I took a deep, deep breath and answered, trying not to grit my teeth, "I just like driving my van."

That's crap, folks. Just crap.