Canada, the large mass of semi-arable land blocking Montana's view of the Arctic, is about to receive less coverage in American media than it gets now. (Already that coverage is too much: unless it's about auto parts heiresses screwing former U.S. presidents, we don't want to know about it). Come summer, the Washington Post is closing its Toronto bureau, leaving "Canadian coverage in the United States to wire services, contract writers, freelancers and reporters parachuted in for specific events." The Toronto Star claims that "many analysts" believe the move "will inevitably push the Canadian message further into irrelevance and widen the gulf between two nations which already do not understand each other well." But is it true?
Who fucking cares? It's Canada. Whatever "the Canadian message" is—and it's probably something involving curling, good manners, grown men in bright red clothing astride horses, French fries with cheese curds on them for some unfathomable reason, surly Francophones who souviens and won't shut up about it, eight million Alice Munro stories about rural life in Ontario, and Power Windows by Rush—we're not interested in hearing it, nor should we be.
But we promise not to forget you completely, little lumberjacks. Keep sending us those cheap pharmaceuticals and we swear that every four years when an election goes to the opposite party of our choosing, we will mutter ineffectually about moving to Montreal before forgetting about it all together. Though enough with the Arcade Fire records or we'll get over our racist feelings about Mexico right quick.
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