The Weekly Standard has an article by Matt LaBash called “Welcome to Canada: The Great White Waste of Time.”
If you have time to waste, you might want to read it. I found myself laughing - imagine getting paid to write this. Then I realized if I’m laughing I must be behaving smugly and “seeing themselves myself as something akin to a superior race.”

I think his assignment was to head to Vancouver BC and talk to US ex-pats and convince those who threaten to leave the US that Canada isn’t Utopia. It didn’t take him long to find out this isn’t Rainbow land and he weaves in cliches from both sides of the border.
He went to the east side of Vancouver, where drug addiction is open and out of control in the wam climate.

To see Canadian progressivism in action, though, I trekked down to the East Side, Vancouver’s Compton, where the storefront Supervised Injection Site caters to junkies on the government teat. With the surrounding streets hosting an open-air drug market, the Site was conceived as a way to rid the neighborhood of discarded drug paraphernalia and promote “safe” drug-taking practices. In typical Canadian fashion, it’s a long way around the barn to get rid of litter.

However, in saying soon to be expats may be buying into Canadian mythology, he does so himself. And since it is myth, it needs to be challenged, so he does.

He takes on health care, the military, gay marriage, crime, greed, generosity, racism, discrimination, aboriginal relations, anti-Semitism, being a faithless country and anti-americanism.

But even when Canada succeeds, it carries the whiff of failure. For nearly a decade, the country sat atop the United Nations quality-of-life index, a fact that Canadian schoolchildren could parrot in their sleep. When Canada dropped to eighth, just behind the United States, its collective psyche took a beating. The next year, Canada shot past us again, but not back to the top. The headline in Ontario’s Windsor Star tells you all you need to know about Canadian triumphalism: “Cheers to us, we’re No. 4.”

Like I said I laughed. Even if he does shoot a few barbs, they are hardly worth getting upset over.

I’m an American, therefore I tend not to think of Canada. On the rare occasion when I have considered the country that Fleet Streeters call “The Great White Waste of Time,” I’ve regarded it, as most Americans do, as North America’s attic, a mildewy recess that adds little value to the house, but serves as an excellent dead space for stashing Nazi war criminals, drawing-room socialists, and hockey goons.

Henry David Thoreau nicely summed up Americans’ indifference toward our country’s little buddy when he wrote, “I fear that I have not got much to say about Canada. . . . What I got by going to Canada was a cold.” For the most part, Canadians occupy little disk space on our collective hard drive. Not for nothing did MTV have a game show that made contestants identify washed-up celebrities under the category “Dead or Canadian?”

If we have bothered forming opinions at all about Canadians, they’ve tended toward easy-pickings: that they are a docile, Zamboni-driving people who subsist on seal casserole and Molson. Their hobbies include wearing flannel, obsessing over American hegemony, exporting deadly Mad Cow disease and even deadlier Gordon Lightfoot and Nickelback albums. You can tell a lot about a nation’s mediocrity index by learning that they invented synchronized swimming. Even more, by the fact that they’re proud of it.

He wants to come back with his family for another visit to our smug, obsessive mediocre none Utopian country. Sounds like he made some friends that will be happy to see him.