[ Wp ] This is the dystopian society where Canada has taken over the world . Everyone is extremely polite , and it 's creepy .

`` Excuse me,'' a man approached. `` Could I have a few dollars from your wallet?'' 
 
 I pulled out the wallet, providing a few loonies, one dollar coin currency. It was an odd sensation, being openly asked for money that in my previous life I would have rejected immediately. But times had changed. 
 
 
 He thanked me and went into the Tim Hortons I had just vacated with a set of four double doubles. It was raining softly with a hum of a quiet wind. An earthen smell rode the wind giving the day a tranquil feeling. 
 
 
 Entering the office, I waved at Jance the secretary before bumping into George. Apparently George knew everyone, but he never admitted how he knew everyone. Instead of taking the elavator, I took the stairs, nodding good morning to a few other colleagues. It was all so... civil. 
 
 
 Getting to my cubicle, my colleagues huddled around the tray I had brought in, making sure to thank me explicitly for the inconvenience. They all put down a toonie for good measure. I gestured to them that it was no big deal, especially since it was part of our company's policy to provide time allowances for measures *that increased morale* or *supported the morale of the nation. * 
 
 
 I sipped my own coffee, frowning at the acrid taste of the cheap coffee. You could n't blame Tim Horton's for it's consistency, only for it's taste. According to recent radio messages, they had listened to Canadians and their complaints about their dark roast, attempting to improve on it. *You ca n't shine a turd*, I found myself thinking. 
 
 
 I started up my computer and exasperated when it gave me a blue screen of death. Tony, the Asian whiz in the cubicle adjacent to my pod stood up inquiring `` Hey, anything wrong buddy?'' 
 
 
 Upon hearing a conversation, his friend George, another oriental colleague pipped in. `` What's this all about?'' 
 
 
 As he pipped up, my manager swung by hearing something other than the typing of keyboards. His Nova Scotian accent was as thick as his mouth tried to make an sentence. `` Waht's thees all aboot? Sumthin not up to spec lad?'' Pointing at my screen, I explained that I had put in a requisition order for an updated workstation. `` Well, a'hm sorey aboot that. A'll talk da Katan aboot dis.'' 
 
 
 I restarted my computer again, hoping that it would n't create any more issues. Booting up, the software finally loaded. The screen read, *The Bureau for Impolite Responses*, followed by the entry login screen. 
 
 
 I found myself doubting the fact that I could take more of this. Looking at seemingly passive aggressive comments and sending emails out notifying people of their misdemeanours was beyond me. 
 
 
 In fact, it was all a bit creepy. At least the Leafs have begun to win Stanley Cups again.
