Philoillogica:

In some SHARE with the SHARING of his very own, Adam decided to bring Abby and I to the land of the free this past weekend, hoping to bring some parity to the otherwise lopsided power imbalance in our three-way relationship. As far as we could understand, Adam's plan was to cajole the Canadians across the border with promises of Old Navy and home cooking; once estranged from our homeland, he would threaten to abandon us amidst easily-purchased firearms and supersized fries unless we stopped blaming him personally for the softwood lumber fiasco.

Abby and I were having none of it. "There's a reason Canada's bigger and on top," we fumed. "As Rick Mercer says, 'if North America were imprisoned, the US would be our bitch.' " We agreed amongst ourselves to go along with The American's plan so long as it suited us, and then bombard him mercilessly with our natural resources and liberal social policy.

Adam began by corralling us into the car, doling out assignments: "Sarah, you're on moose patrol. Abby, your job is to drool plentifully all over the backseat." Little did he know that The Great Canadian Book of Lists was just a ploy to increase the Canadian content of our American adventure, a way to combat the quaintness of small-town America and Adam's dripping enthusiasm. It was "Top Ten Canadian Murders," "Top Ten Canadian Foods with Cheese," "Top Ten Canadian Neuroses," all the way to Bangor, as Abby and I plotted how best to get Adam drunk and back to the hotel for an orgy of furious handicraft.

Stephen King's House

Stephen King's Gas Station

The snow started falling as Adam cruised around the Bangor streets, showing us the sights. "This was where the first all-you-can-eat restaurant I put out of business was," he said, as Abby and I cursed his incredibly unfair metabolism. "And here is where I used to end my daily sixty mile run. It wasn't much, I know, but I was too busy to do any serious running."

Adam brought us to the Maine Children's Discovery Museum, where the advanced synergy between me and Abby was successfully demonstrated by set of robotic arms. I'm not exactly sure what we were learning, but our innate Canadian inferiority complex was obliterated as we crowed our superiority over the simple ken of American children.

Once Abby infiltrated their neural network, the organization offered no further resistance to our takeover. After the exotic dancers arrived to celebrate our victory, we left the Museum to implement our elaborate and sinister plan to intoxicate Adam. It worked beautifully:

Sir Drinks-a-lot and his curvy lady friends

Ten seconds later Adam passed out face first into the table. Abby and I dragged him back to the hotel and outlined the Bluenose on his chest with beads and a glue-gun.

Final score: Canada 1, USA 0.

The moral of the story: You can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose.

That is, unless you're Adam: