I sat on the Canadian side of the border for eight minutes, staring intently at the maroon Dodge Caravan ahead of me and trying to figure out what cartoon the kids were watching in the back. Finally the border patrol waived them through - he'd deduced that SpongeBob Squarepants had much greater things to worry about than invading US soil. It was my turn.

If you've never driven through customs and you have three hours to kill, I recommend it. It reminded of that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, where the troll is questioning King Arthur and his knights before they're allowed to cross the bridge.

"What is your name?"

"King Arthur"

"What is your quest?"

"To find the holy grail."

"Are you carrying in any fruit or vegetables?"

The questions were basic - where have you been, where are you going, how long have you been in Canada, and that one about produce. I got them all right except the one about how long I'd been in Canada. I'd said four hours and then corrected myself - I planned on being there four hours, but the slow crossing procedure made it take seven. The customs agent did NOT appreciate me pointing out why I'd been mistaken.

I still passed. That makes sense - I got a 75 on their little test. Though if I had gotten one more question wrong, they may have made me take summer border-crossing school.

I'm sure there are random searches to deter people from smuggling things over, like firearms or zucchini. But these questions are ridiculous. If anyone is going to get caught by a causal conversation with Border Patrol RFD, they'd have screwed up before they did any damage anyway.

"Boss, I'm really sorry I didn't blow up the arena. I tried, but someone asked me what time it was, and I got all flustered. All these questions are really stressful. I need a hug."

I had plenty of time to think this all through, as I was waiting in the airport a few days later. After spending an hour and twenty minutes in the security line, I unpacked my laptop, took off my shoes and belt, and showed my ID. After clutching my pants on the way through the dignity-removal unit, I picked up my carryon - you know, the one with the knife in it.

A few weeks ago, I'd accidentally left a small pocket knife in my bag. I got through unchecked, so I kept leaving it there. This was the sixth time I've gotten through airport security with a knife. I'm sure my next flight will be the seventh.

The knife is small - it probably couldn't do any more damage than, say, a box cutter. But even if they confiscated it I'd still have another weapon. Whenever I fly early, I pick up breakfast by my gate, purchasing my orange juice in a glass bottle. While I can't imagine a terrorist taking a plane with little more than Orangina, it's not comforting to know it's an option.

The reason we're probably safe from Orangina attacks is of how embarrassing it'd be to the terrorist if he failed.

"Did you hear what happened to [insert generically offensive middle-eastern name here]? He tried to take over a plane with vitamin C! Ahahahaha. Silly [insert generically offensive middle-eastern name here]."

What was it that took the Dodge Caravan so long to pass through that checkpoint? Besides the obvious pun on "nuclear family," what could they have said that triggered eight minutes of questions?

"Well, your story checks out. Your three kids seem harmless - they're all safely buckled in, especially the one in the car seat. You've got three "Support Our Troops" magnets on the back of your car, your bumper sticker is an American flag, and you're eating freedom fries. But what is your favorite color?"

"Blue. No, yel"¦ Ahhhhh!!!!"

The only thing that makes us any safer than we were three years ago is the increased willingness Americans have to put their lives on the line for each other. The Department of Homeland Security, which made news a few months ago when they raided a store in Oregon to confiscate knock-offs of the Rubix Cube, is doing little to make me sleep any easier. Though I was really worried about Rubix getting all his proper royalties. Thanks, guys.

If someone takes over a plane using a pocket knife or an Orangina bottle, we'll all attack him, and that is what is keeping us secure. Not removing our belts or proving our laptops have the ability to come out of their bags, or spending three hours in line to get back into America. Which is also silly - if you're going to try to trip up the terrorists, don't give them all that extra time to study.

When I was leaving the country, the Canadian border patrol was a bit trickier. Instead of asking questions like, "Are you carrying in any fruits or vegetables," they asked, "where are your fruits and vegetables?" I almost answered, "in the trunk!" but luckily I remembered that I am not a produce smuggler, and instead replied, "I don't have any. Though I have a few freedom fries left if you're hungry."

Canada has a sense of humor, already having produced Jim Carey, the Kids in the Hall, and the Toronto Maple Leafs. But I wouldn't recommend getting smarmy at the airport. While at LaGuardia, I refused to remove my sneakers. I told the security guard that sometimes they didn't set off the alarm and I was willing to take my chances. I passed through okay - and then saw her set off the machine manually. After checking me thoroughly, she harangued me about how despite where I'm from, in New York they do things differently. I'd already moved to Los Angeles by then, but I still had my New York ID. I showed it to her, complete with an address about five miles from the airport, and asked her what part of New Jersey she was from.

And with that, I picked up my knife and glass bottle and headed towards my flight.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

I spend a lot of my day dealing with people in customer service. I check into hotels, I rent cars, I buy airplane tickets, and I own a good deal of electronic equipment that constantly needs fixing. And though I'm told my calls are recorded for quality training purposes, they're probably used as an example of what not to do.

"Did you hear the part where she ignored what he requested and repeated the inane policy that she's already explained twice?"

"Yes."

"Try not to do that."

"I'm sorry, what was that? I was busy ignoring what someone requested and repeating the inane policy that I've already explained twice."

After a recent late show in Dayton, I called the hotel for directions. It was well after midnight, and I wanted to go to sleep. They gave us precise directions - the wrong way. We were supposed to drive 15 minutes through Dayton. They sent us away from Dayton. You can understand simply that that is the wrong way.

25 minutes later, we called to check. First the woman didn't believe she was wrong. Finally she admitted she caused us to go almost an hour out of the way, and with no apology she said, "Yeah, I thought it was the other way."

I don't accept things like that. When I'm overcharged on my phone bill, when I get a late fee for a credit card payment that was processed on time, when anything goes wrong that isn't my fault, I demand restitution. And it works. Once, Sprint charged my account $400 after I already cancelled it. Though it took them three months to pay me back, I got the $400, 3% interest on it, and three months free phone service for my mother. Pay it forward, right?

I got the hotel to comp us a free breakfast. All she did was get the directions wrong, so it wasn't worth a free night's stay. I was content that I beat customer service. It was over.

Finally arriving at the hotel after 2:00, we checked in to a room that only had one bed. When we went back to the desk and politely explained that they gave us the wrong room, the same woman (with no apology) said, "yeah, there's another one I can give you."

It was too late to argue. We just went to the new room and went to sleep. But the next morning, we ate a very large breakfast.

I understand that most people do not choose jobs in customer service. I've never met a kid dreaming of answering questions about products they care little about. But for those unfortunate enough to be in an industry where their job is to help people should do their job or get fired. Or I should at least be able to sue them for malpractice.
"Yes, your honor. She ignored me and repeated the inane policy that she's already explained twice."

"I'm sorry I didn't get that. I'm still on hold with Toshiba."

There are some very helpful people in customer service. But for every one person that has ever helped me, there have been two that went out of their way to further screw up the problem, or worse, insult me. As a humor columnist I don't really have feelings, but in case I did these people should not try to hurt them.

I want to know what the interview process was like for the woman at that hotel.

"It says on your application that you're a people person. But all your references say you're terribly ornery."

"Yeah, I must have lied."

"Honesty about lying. We appreciate that. You're hired."

"When do I start?"

"I'm sorry I didn't get that. I'm still on hold with Toshiba."

It's easy for me to complain and not really do anything about the problem. (That's kind of what I do for a living). Instead, I want to use this column to make a difference. I encourage anyone reading this to join me in my quest to never take no for an answer. Join me in beating the system. Join me in forcing customer service to actually serve the customer. And most importantly, join me in...wait, gotta go, I'm off hold.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

As I kneeled over a bucket, throwing up for the 15th time in 30 minutes, my friend said to me, "Sure, you feel terrible now. But this is going to make a great column."

When you're as sick as I was Friday night, it's hard to think about anything other than the feeling in your stomach and the taste in your mouth. Well, there's the sweet release of death, but I only prayed for that two or three times.

I was at Muhlenberg College, preparing to do a show, when the food poisoning hit me. I assume it was food poisoning, because I've never heard of a 12-hour flu. I'd eaten a soup and a salad for lunch because, ironically, my stomach wasn't feeling great from my lack of sleep the night before. So when I proceeded to feel worse throughout the day, I didn't think it was because of what I ate. I assumed it was because the housekeepers had a party outside my door early that morning.

I'm not sure if it was a party, but it was loud. Having gotten in at 4AM the previous night, I made sure to put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door. What that meant was that housekeepers were not allowed to knock on my door, but they were allowed to yell to each other just outside of it.

"Room 309 has the do not disturb sign up."

"WHAT?"

"ROOM 309 HAS THE DO NOT DISTURB SIGN UP!"

"OH. THEN I GUESS WE BETTER BE QUIET."

"YES! WE SHOULD STOP SCREAMING IMEDIATELY!"

I got the soup and salad because I was wondering if my tired stomach could take the grilled cheese and fries I was going to order. Be safe, I thought. Soup and salad. Easy enough.

As I kneeled over a bucket, throwing up for the 15th time in 30 minutes, I said to myself, "I should have had the grilled cheese."

There was another problem - not only did I feel terrible, but I had a show to do. I gathered myself together, washed out the bucket, and went on stage. I think someone drove me to the show in between, but I was too delirious to remember exactly what happened.

I performed for a half hour before I couldn't take it anymore. I thanked everyone for coming, and found the nearest drain. Fellow comedian and traveling partner Steve Boyer finished the show. In the fifteen minutes between when I got off stage and when the show ended, I threw up twice and passed out on a desk in the hallway.

As I lay there on that desk hovering over a bucket, almost throwing up for the 20th time that night, one member of the audience said to me, "you're really sick, huh?"

"No." I replied. "This is an elaborate ruse so people will feel bad for me and laugh more."

Hey, I was sick, I wasn't dead. The day I'm too sick to be sarcastic is the day I'm too sick to talk.

The food poisoning passed the next day, and I ate a bowl of jello and a few pretzels. I also managed a can of ginger ale. Canada Dry should have commercials for just such an occasion.

"When you feel like you're dying, try some Canada Dry! Don't remember the name? It's "Dry" - just like the heaves you had last night!"

While I was sick, I couldn't think of anything other than the pain and how slow the clock was moving. Less than 24 hours later, I didn't even remember how bad I felt. That's the amazing thing about being sick - you forget about it pretty quickly. Well, that's ONE of the amazing things. The other amazing things are too disgusting to print.

I am proud that I was still able to perform. And I'm glad that after the show, we drove to New York where my mother took care of me until I felt better this morning. That's the odd dichotomy of my life right now. I'm old enough to stubbornly insist on going to work despite being sick, but young enough that after work, I still needed my mother. (A necessity which may never go away).

I like I earned a badge last night by having the show go on despite how I felt. And to all comedians, musicians, and other performers who are in a similar position, I have one piece of advice: If you happen to eat at the Allentown Friendly's on Cedar Crest Boulevard, get the grilled cheese.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

The biggest football story I've heard recently has nothing to do with the Super Bowl. The biggest football story I've heard is that there's a third Manning brother. And he doesn't play football.

For those who don't follow sports, the Mannings are a football dynasty. The youngest is Eli, quarterback for the Giants and last year's first overall draft pick. The middle child is Peyton, arguably one of the best quarterbacks in the last few decades. And the eldest is Cooper, an institutional broker.

That's right - an institutional broker. I'm not even sure what that is but if I were in his place, I'd need to be institutionalized, too.

The father of the three is Archie Manning, a former MVP quarterback himself. Cooper did play college ball - and was regarded quite highly until an injury ended his career. And his ability to rub anything in to his little brothers. Can you imagine what Thanksgiving is like in that house?

"Pass the stuffing?"

"Like your brothers and I passed our way into the record books?"

"Yeah, dad. Just like that. Shoot me."

I always knew there were sports families - but I never gave much thought to the other brothers. You know, the guys who didn't quite make it. And they're all over the place. Rarely does a whole family break in - and so the father and son tales of glory are made that much more awkward by the son who is an institutional broker.

Barry Bonds, known for his 703 home runs and his 703 inch forehead, is the son of baseball perennial all-star Bobby Bonds and the nephew of Olympian Rosie Bonds. If Barry's steroid flap doesn't keep him out of Cooperstown, he'll be enshrined in baseball's Hall of Fame. Which will be a momentous occasion for everyone in the family except Bobby Bonds Jr. Junior never made the majors, but hung on as a minor leaguer for eight years before finally retiring. Did I mention the poor kid is also Reggie Jackson's cousin?

In 1990, Ken Griffey Sr. and Ken Griffey Sr. became the first father and son to share an outfield together when they did so in Seattle. At the time, Ken Jr.'s little brother Craig was in high school, about to be drafted by the same Seattle Mariners. What a story - three Griffeys on one team! The hype was there - and several baseball cards and posters featuring all three were made. But Craig never made it past the minors. I wonder if he has any of the posters.

The Hulls are one of hockey's biggest dynasties. Brothers Dennis, a six-time all-star, and Bobby, a Hall-of-Famer, dominated the NHL in the 1960s. A few decades later, Bobby's son Brett became one of the top three goal scorers of all time. Brett Hull's agent? His brother Bobby Jr. Junior did have some hockey experience of his own - five years playing for low level minor league teams and one game of (get this) professional roller hockey. But using his famous last name, Junior now makes extra cash running a hockey training camp.

"Now kids, this is how you earn an income while slowly drowning in your sibling's enormous shadow."

It's got to be terrible for Bobby Jr. to represent his brother during negotiations. Keeping with the Mr. Saturday Night credo of "never manage family," his life is based on his brother's life. There's no way that could possibly be fun.

Sometimes having a famous sibling allows you to jump some hurdles and get famous as well, even if you don't have much talent. (See Simpson, Ashlee). But that doesn't work in sports. Just ask Ozzie Canseco, who is only as talented as his big brother Jose in brawling, going to jail and taking steroids. Ozzie couldn't cut it in the big leagues and he was dropped quickly. At least having a famous brother might get people to be nicer to him in prison.

It is possible that Cooper Manning, Bobby Bonds Jr., Craig Griffey, and even Bobby Hull Jr. are very happy with their non-sports lives. Maybe they're better off this way. Being a professional athlete is a tough, demanding life, where you have little time for anything outside the game. It's possible that not being professional athletes gives them more time with their families, more time to pursue hobbies, and most importantly, more time to bang their head repeatedly against the Thanksgiving table.

Enjoy the game.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

I heard something I had to run by you. A fairly average looking girl, when prodded by a guy to make out with her fairly average looking female friend, said the following:

"Ew, no! I would only dyke out if it were like Angelina Jolie."

Oh really? Is that when? Because that's about to happen. Angelina Jolie is about to stroll in to a college bar at 1AM on a Tuesday, and be memorized by your pink tube top and black pants. The girl from Tomb Raider is going to forget that she just starred in a flick with Jude Law and Gwyneth Paltrow and decide to go slumming with a five who's pushing maximum density. In other words, let me say this: Angelina Jolie is never going to make out with you. Hell, I'm not even going to make out with you.

First, she's famous. Second, she's rich. Third, and most importantly, she's a hot girl. Many average guys can't get the attention of hot girls- and it's not because they're average guys. It's because they're chasing hot girls. When you replace the guy in the equation with the drunk girl in your Lit class, nothing changes. Hot girls still reject people. Especially girls who use the expression, "dyke out."

Living in Los Angeles these last few months, I've had a chance to study the habits of attractive women. From the other side of the bar. LA women, for the most part, are women who know they're attractive. Most careers out here have to do with looking good, so these are the kind of women who can just walk down the street saying, "I'm hot I'm hot I'm hot I'm hot I'm hot." In Kansas if a girl is hot, she might not know it. She might be shelving oven mitts at a Walmart, and just coincidentally be hot. Being hot is not on her resume. If being hot mattered at Walmart, the greeters wouldn't need protective headgear.

The point is that hot women, especially hot LA women, know it. And when they know it, they decide who they'll be with and when. To them, life is a bonus round on Supermarket Sweep. They can pick up whatever they want, put it in their little shopping cart of life, and breeze through the express lane. Hell, they can breeze through any lane. We'll get out of the way for them.

Angelina Jolie, is the hottest of hot. There may be hotter girls out there, but Angelina knows that she is definitely hot more than any of them - I'm sure she's heard by now. I just get this nagging feeling that she's out partying with other rich beautiful people, many of who still won't get to make out with her.

The thought that this girl considered making out with Angelina Jolie an option is insane. Tube top girl, if you're reading this and you ever get asked to make out with a girl again, just say, "no, I don't make out with girls." Throwing Angelina in as a caveat is like saying, "I'm don't ski, except when the mountain is made of leprechauns and fairy dust!"

And the best part is, that is more likely to happen.

1. Our friends at Topic Magazine are doing a feature on dumb laws. There's a list of them here. If you live in one of the states or countries mentioned and want to take a photo of you/your friends breaking the laws, send the photo to info@topicmag.com. It may appear in their international magazine and we'll feature some on CH as well.

2. Aaron Karo has a new column out today so be sure to check that out.

3. Hey, has anyone around here seen any hotlinks?