Reflections at the Canadian border

At the Canadian border, I must have made one too many jokes about marijuana. While other cars went quickly through customs and on their way, we were detained for over two hours, waiting on one Mounty "Joe" and a sidekick as they dumped out our carefully packed cargo all over the asphalt.
At the start of this trip, we weren’t potheads, but gradually, as we have returned to hippie pathways, we've learned that owning the title, despite having never smoked marijuana, is inevitable. Our rattling van gets hangloose signs from vagabonds on street corners. Teenagers approach us looking for weed. We once tried to explain that we were traveling in the van for its size, not to achieve peace and harmony, but no one bought it. Our license plate, “Dubsil,” is damning. It's a clever twist on the names of Josh's parents but somehow, at the gas stations of the great white north, it's strangely reminiscent of doobies.