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...owards his carefully wrapped package.

"Which?  My degree?", asked John.

Maybe she wanted to make a photocopy for her records.

The primly dressed women plucked her glasses from her breast pocket and pushed them up as her forehead wrinkled.  She gazed at his degree and said, "Hmmmm."

"Hmmmm?", said John.

"Right", she muttered under her breath.

"Right". muttered John under his.

"You didn't happen to major in Canadian Literature, did you?  A little Atwood, Findley, Richler, Frye?"

"No", laughed John, "I was more of a medieval guy myself.  A little Chaucer...."

"I'm sorry.", she interrupted, "We can't hire you."

"Pardon?", laughed John with a little nervous chuckle.

"Nope.  The way it is.  Canadian school.  Canadian Literature"

"Ma'am", stumbled John, "But I'm only going to be a janitor"

"And that, I'm afraid, sir, is where we have to disagree"

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