A. The place was full of Canadians...and that is why I'll never visit Canada again.
B. The first time I saw Canada Jones, she was naked except for a strategically positioned maple leaf, and I longed to taste her sweet maple syrup, which soon enough I did but, unsatisfied, I kept returning for more until one day she was hit by a truck, and that is why I'll never visit Canada again.
C. After I tried to win your affection with silly pun-filled poems only to have my heart refunded without deposit, alone on a bench just outside of Montreal, I weighed the options of loss with this: this imagined possibility denied...and that is why I'll never visit Canada again.
D. It was a dark and stormy night as we sped towards the border, and the memory of Marlon's last words to me vied for my attention against the thick, cloying smell coming from the trunk: "I ain't never been there but there's been trouble of one sort or another, and that is why I'll never visit Canada again."
E. After more than two decades of loneliness, I knew she had to be the one, and that is why I'll never visit Canada again.
F. When I died my brain was transplanted into an artificial, purpose-built host and, although organic and human-like in appearance, its molecular structure expands and solidifies below ten degree centigrade, resulting in a choked arterial system, self-strangulation and a rather nasty migraine, and that is why I'll never visit Canada again.
G. When I was Twenty-Four I went with some friends to Montreal, and stayed in a hotel off Saint Catherine Street that had a filthy bathtub and no toilet paper (which is critical when drinking); after 28 hours of hard-core drinking I had the runs and nothing to clean up with...and that is why I'll never visit Canada again.
H. I told the Judge, your Honor, the taxi driver was drunk when he ran into the Chinese ambassador and I got out and was doing CPR on him which is why I had to pull out his credentials so you see I didn't steal his wallet, I was saving him....which is why I'll never visit Canada again.
I. There was still the cocaine burn in my head when I woke up at the Montreal PD to the sweetest voice in the world, which belonged to an adorable teenage transvestite named Kitten who wiped crusted blood from my skull and cooed soothingly as I rolled my tongue through the gap that was my two front teeth, remembering flashes of the night like a perfect storm, the disco, a speed boat, the Asian prostitute sniffing coke off my ass, more memories came flooding back as I was brought to the plane like Hannibal and strapped in for the flight back to the Vatican, and I couldn't help thinking that my chances of becoming pope were dashed on the rocks of crack cocaine on a weekend bender of assumed anonymity or if maybe after 62 years the church wasn't for me after all and that is why I'll never visit Canada again.