“You know, it just baffles me,” Larry Miller, Conservative MP for Bruce-Grey-Owen Sound, told radio callers on Monday. “If you’re not willing to show your face in the ceremony, that you're joining the best country in the world, then frankly ... stay the hell where you came from.”

The MP was chatting about “that lady” of the citizenship-ceremony niqab ban on the CFOS 560 (“The Oldies You Want, The Info You Need”) flagship call-in show and I couldn’t have agreed more.

CFOS is a great station. When they give weather reports, they really give them “like nobody's business.” They tell it like it is. So does Miller. So do I. “Larry is the real article — what he says and stands for are what’s in his heart,” former Peterborough Conservative MP and soon-to-be-sentenced Dean Del Mastro told the National (Now In Certain Areas) Post. I think DDM meant the “genuine article” or the “real deal,” but I am, like him, both.

I too think immigrants who don’t adapt to our ways should “stay the hell where they came from” and also go back there. Countries we should send people back to, don’t get me started, I don’t want to “offend” anybody but certain people should take that thing off their face. And enough with the foreign “cooking.”

Here’s a list of countries that should stop sending us fresh Canadians:

Scotland — My mother, from Glasgow (sorry, just “outside” Glasgow, apparently Scottish people have social classes, who knew), is 87 and last week she finally got online and sent me her first email. I’ve told her that ye olden Toronto Star is only printed on paper, so I have, I’m guessing, a two-week window where I can speak as I find. The Scots are a savage people, they have leather hearts, their bars of soap are worn to a nub that you poke at your crevices, yearning for a fresh bar and feeling guilty about your own nakedness. Their food is a disgrace. I give you my Aunt Moira’s “quick scones.” She’s 90. Flour, marge, skim milk powder, mix, divide into four balls, bake, eat. Tastes like: cream of tartar. Weighs: more than lead. Lasts: forever. Oh just eat it and shut up. Slogan: “We were not put on this earth for pleasure.” Worship: St. Inverness, patron of the stoic. Phrase that lingers: “Who do you think you are?” National pastime: pursing lips.

India — India is a hot, religion-stricken, caste-ridden spiritual-enlightenment-selling nation that exports quarrels. India suits me about as much as Scotland does, i.e., not at all. My late father, from Calcutta, went to medical school in Glasgow (see above) and when he went to the Indian consulate for his ticket home, was told “are you nuts?” He never went back. Kashmir is nice, he used to say when prodded. Despite my pleas, we always went to Scotland. (The Hebrides are covered in sheep sh--. Fun fact: it squeaks when you walk on it.) India’s food is heavenly. I recall my mother trying to Indian-ize her meals, which meant she’d boil cabbage and mince and throw raisins in it. National slogan: “Does that hot pink come in navy?” National pastime: emigrating. Worship: death, which is basically recycling.

Phrase that lingers: “We haven’t heard the last of that cabbage.”

The United Kingdom — What kingdom? This country is a noisy basement. Scotland’s leaving, Wales has had it, and face it, no one wants Northern Ireland, not even actual Ireland. Britain smells of chip fat and failure. The north is so dire the queen wants to declare martial law, and the south is divided between thick poshos with moated country homes and drunk Daily Mail Islanders with horrible skin conditions. The prime minister is a lizard. He curls up next to the radiator during cabinet meetings, alleges journalist Charlton Brooker, and only eats once a week. The country’s only getting hotter because Cameron has glassed it in, Brooker said. Fair enough, lizards “need to live in a vivarium.” I married a Brit. He hates his homeland, except for something called Tottenham Hotspur, which is either a village or a special kind of sock for fell-walking. Major export: Twitter trolls. Worship: St. George, patron saint of elderly looking babies. Phrase that lingers: “Mustn’t grumble.” National holiday: The Changing of the Sheets.

I could do a Buzzfeed on every nation (Portugal, you’re next). Everybody should just stay home, especially Canadians.

Canada — Does any foreigner ever say, “Ooooh I met this fascinating Canadian once. Yes, he was a tender lover, we tested the limits that night and I broke an ankle twice. The same ankle.” No. Why not?

Because we are a nation of Larry Millers. Miller, of Wiarton, is in the Conservative Hunting and Angling Caucus. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s fishing. I spent years every childhood afternoon sitting hour after hour as the boat slowly rocked, and to what purpose? Waiting for a nibble and timing my jerk, netting the thing which was always a pike, a thin bony mean-faced Scot of a fish, while the minnows wilted in the bucket and my brain floated and baked in the stingy northern sun.

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Fishing is what feeds “rural idiocy,” thanks, Karl Marx. I came to Toronto to get away from fisherfolk. You know, it just baffles me that they ever came ashore; I wish they’d stay the hell on the lake they came from.