In Montana, cars whipped past going 10 zillion miles per hour, so I turned north toward Canada, where "Maximum: 10 Zillion" isn't as fast as it sounds. A waitress at a nearby truckstop noticed my direction and asked if I was going to Canada. "Tell 'em to come down and take all their damn geese back!" she screeched.
I'm never quite sure what to do in situations like these. So I grabbed a 24-pack of generic cola beverage in one hand and a monster-sized red hot burrito in the other, pausing only to shred the plastic wrapper of the burrito with my teeth, spitting the shreds in the ditch, where they lightly decorated the dandelions and wild marijuna plants.