Girls of Canada

Canada. For most men, the mere mention of the place conjures up images of ice fishing, lean bacon and safe haven from military service. But for those of us who have done time in the Great White North--guys with chilling tales of hypothermia and confusing metric conversions--Canada means just one thing: women!

Surprised? Consider this: Hugh Hefner's last three girlfriends were Canadian, and last year he married one! Does he know something you don't? You bet he does. Hef has been riding the cutting edge since he figured out that pipe-and-pajama thing. You don't see him running off to Sweden or Italy in search of beautiful, exotic women. Take it from me, there's a new frontier to be conquered, and it's only about a $15 cab ride from downtown Buffalo.

The subject of Canadian women is one I feel confident discussing, for I am a Canadian citizen and I have the socialized health insurance to prove it. And, like so many of my fellow citizens, I feel compelled to let the world know that Canada is the greatest country on the face of this earth. (Regrettably, this undertaking has required my establishing permanent residence in the United States and moving into a terrific apartment in New York City.) (text concluded on page 140)Giris of Canada(continued from page 117)

What exactly makes Canadian women so darned attractive to guys in the know? Is it simply their willingness to endure televised hockey? Or, worse, Canadian football? Perhaps it's their tolerance of Canadian men. After all, this is the country that gave us Rich Little. Imagine the level of patience required to get through a long winter of Henry Kissinger impressions. Clearly, these women are capable of putting up with more than their share of insufferable boredom, pomposity and icy road conditions.

Which brings us to frigidity, a common condition in Canada. No need to panic. If, after a glass of Pouilly-Fuissé (or a couple of Moosehead tallboys), a Canadian lady tells you she's frigid, it's likely that all she needs is an extra Hudson's Bay blanket. At such moments, it's not a bad idea to throw another log on the fire. Rule of thumb number one: When in Canada, forget roses. Say it with kindling.

But don't think Canadian women can be pacified with the kind of mindless gifts you've been giving your mom and sister for so many years. Canadian women are discriminating consumers. Simple, practical items and thoughtful gestures are all the rage. For instance, the perfect keepsake might be a duplex condo in Cancun, while a month in Bermuda is exactly the type of gesture that leads to a deeper relationship.

Perhaps it's even more useful to understand what Canadian women don't want. They don't want to spend weekend nights watching their men chase after the puck in an unheated arena equipped with splintered benches and glacial toilet seats. They don't want to have anything to do with curling--Canada's inexplicably popular version of shuffleboard. They don't want to watch it, they don't want to talk about it and they certainly don't want to play it. Canadian women are tired of browsing in stores that sell anything made out of birch bark, tree sap or beaver pelt. And fair warning: They're growing weary of weekends at the cottage with ten cases of Molson's, his fishing buddies and a sun deck from which to piss.

Which brings us to rule of thumb number two: Even the least ambitious weekend plans will be successful as long as beer caps do not become hazardous obstacles.

"But what's in it for me?" you ask. How do brains, beauty and talent sound? Consider some of those Canadian females who have recently distinguished themselves in the world arena: classical guitarist Liona Boyd, tennis star Carling Bassett-Seguso and cover girl Linda Evangelista, not to mention perennials Catherine O'Hara and Margot Kidder. Such a woman can reduce the average male to a gelatinous pool in less time than it takes to figure out who's on the two-dollar bill. But she won't! And therein lies the secret allure of every Canadian woman. She knows just how insecure and frail her man really is, and she will go out of her way to spare him all those cruel, hurtful remarks that are sure to spoil his curling score.

I'll never forget my own first Canadian girl. Talk about special treatment! She served me griddlecakes and back bacon followed by a striptease. I savored all 160 centimeters of that gorgeous 92-60-89 body. The noon sun peeked over the tundra horizon, shone through the window and glistened off her lithe 49-kilogram frame. She was the kind of girl who came along about as often as a Stanley Cup in Toronto. She gave me a kiss and my temperature jumped to 40 degrees Celsius. The next thing I remember, I was complaining about free trade, the lumber shortage and that damned acid rain.

I suppose life is full of squandered opportunities. Sometimes I dream of returning to that frosty province to track down my little snow angel. I just wish Canada weren't so expensive. Somebody told me the Canadian dollar might take another nose dive soon and, who knows, if this global-warming thing works out ... well, I'll keep my fingers crossed.

"Talk about special treatment! She served me griddle-cakes and back bacon followed by a striptease."