If you ever end up in prison, just tell everyone you are Canadian.

This I learned from an actual Canadian who's in prison for smuggling pot. He's super-chiseled like a lot of prisoners, and he's tall, with flowing blond hair that makes me say "Tarzan!" inside my head. He's unique, though, in one very special way. No tattoos. Not a one. No baby's faces trying to look innocent as they stretch over some dude's pecs (a common tribute to a child on the outside,waiting for dad who's on the inside). No slogans like "Outrage" inked across the hand, no elaborate patchwork blanketing the arms, no "Thug Life" arching over the umbilicus.

"Not my style, eh" he says when I comment on it. "I stay away from all that."

He punctuates every other sentence with "eh" so I ever-so-astutely ask him if he's from Canada. Duh.

Apparently it's great to be in prison if you are Canadian. Everybody loves you. "The Mexican guys tell me they got my back," he says. "The black guys tell me they'll watch out for me. Even the skinheads say they'll protect me. I could get elected mayor of this place," he says with a big grin.

He's in the clinic today because he can barely walk from osteoarthritis of both hips, but it's his right one that is just bone-on-bone. He says he's put in for a hip replacement, and I immediately calculate the odds of that ever happening. I also immediately panic over what to do for this guy. I haven't been cleared for surgery just yet. He bails me out and says he just wants a cane. Whew, I think I can do that! But wait. Can prisoners have canes? Can't they beat each other to a pulp with canes? Would they make an exception for the Mayor of Prison?

It turns out prisoners can have canes, if they promise not to beat each other with them. I guess that's the same rule that would apply for you and me. He gives me a terrifically charming smile and says "Thanks, eh. I feel better already!"

I would vote for this man.