When you were younger and even more foolish than you are now, did you ever suddenly realize that you were an illegal in a foreign country? As a result of this predicament, you had to stroll across the border on foot to get your passport stamped, didn’t you? (Well, yes, you didn’t have a vehicle, and crossing the border would permit you to remain legally in that foreign nation for another 90 days. Clearly, going through the bureaucracy of the unnamed nation would just be bureau-crazy.)
Then, much to your chagrin, when you crossed the border and found yourself in another equally-foreign country with unpleasant road signs and unhappy bovines, you realized you had to relieve yourself (#1).
You sought out some heavy underbrush to avoid the vacant gawking of the heifers, and squatted down (…because you’re a girl, standing is downright messy). Moments later, satisfied with yourself and the little things in life (like free will, cows that mind their own business, and being able to relieve yourself of uncomfortable bodily waste of your own power), you stood up to a searing, stinging pain.
Ah! You’d grazed your delicate dupa against some unknown plant – and not just any foreign flora – but a burning, rash-inducing hateful plant that you had never encountered in your home country (or any other country, for that matter). You’re certain it had been planted during wartime by some antagonistic neighboring nation.
With your backside burning, scorching, (and other flammable words related to fire), did you skip and run around in circles avoiding cow flop and screeching obscenities in American English (mostly directed at former Soviet leaders, secretly hoping the current one is not within earshot)?
Yeah? Me too.
Then, did the miserable and brawny border guard refuse to stamp your passport after all that hassle, ass-simmering, and swear-practice?
Yep. Me too. Somehow, the elder me finds hours of filling out forms, unfriendly office antics, and unnecessary document retrieval far less invasive.