"So THAT'S where Shawinigan is."

It was only thanks to the dulcet tones of Dolly Parton that Abby and I survived our returning trek to Lower Canada. After being waylaid only by an unfortunate tour through the labyrinthine alleys of Trois-Rivieres that increased our total driving time by two delirious hours, we alternated frantic clutches at the steering wheel, sobbing and belting 'Why'd you come in here (looking like that)' and 'Jolene.'  By hour fourteen, the depths of the New Brunswick interior resonated with the original War of the Worlds broadcast, the occasional flicker of oncoming traffic foreboding the senseless destruction of mankind into a spray of the Martian delicacy of blood.  As the tail-lights dissolved into the darkness, a fiendish red glow oozed behind our VW, our resistance to domination ensured as we slowly bled out to passivity. 

The word games helped a little:

Frankly,
Reason
Exceeds
Desperation,
Exponentially
Rousing
Incorrigible
Complaining
Throughout
One's
Neuroses.

Festering
Rashes
Everywhere
Develop,
Especially
Re-entering
Into
Carefully
Thought-
Out
Nonsense.

Honey, we're home.