“Some fucker slipped me a Canadian quarter,” I announced to Mr. P as we approached a toll booth on the Mass Pike. Excuse the harsh language, but when I discover that I’ve been shortchanged with Canuck money, I feel screwed.
Mr. P wanted to sneak the worthless coin to the toll-taker, but the back of the quarter caught my eye: Three child stick figures, holding hands. “What is this?” I asked Mr. Pinault, who is a Canadian citizen and shrugged it off as “Hey, it’s Canada.”
Obviously it is a special edition, but why would Canada, a country already self-conscious about being America’s Dopey Little Sister, mint a coin commemorating this? Generally I like Canadians, except when they assert moral supremacy over Americans because they are passive socialists, and when their quarters infiltrate my wallet.
Are the customer service associates near the border simply not vigilant against this foreign menace of alien currency? Or could someone be eking profit off the exchange rate? The vending machine at work once dispensed a Canadian quarter. I then unsuccessfully tried to use it in a future snack acquisition, meaning that they sneak Canadian money in vending machine change!
Luckily, Canadian quarters are easy to get rid of. I target cashiers in take-out lunch places, who in turn dispense their fair share. Once I noticed a cashier at Au Bon Pain had snuck me one. “Excuse me, this is Canadian,”I said, holding it out to her. But she slammed her drawer shut and called “Next please,” daring me to be the jerk who holds up the line. Accept defeat and move on. It’s only a quarter.
