Fixing the Megan Shirt
Megs, mentioned previously, decided that she wanted to come out to Japan with me and thus packed herself up and was delivered yesterday by Canada Post. She is now folded neatly on the bed behind me. Yes, I am now the proud owner of the hottest item since Tickle Me Rob Schneider, something that hit the top of everyone's Christmas, birthday and bar mitzvah wish list and a rare commodity among online collectors. Yes, ladies and gents, I can now boast gleefully that I have Megan: The T-shirt©. There upon the shirt, resting within a tranquil sea of white cotton, is an enlarged blow up of my friend Meg’s freckled face. If one so wished they could connect the dots on the shirt to reveal the outline of Portugal. Her eyes gaze at you, following you about the room. Like reality television shows, you cannot escape them. They are locked upon you as though they were peering into your very soul searching for the deepest answers to the eternal questions of life. However, if you knew Megs as I do, you’d realize that she is just locked in a marijuana stupor, zoned into her internal nothingness and wondering where the closest bag of Doritos might be. A deer in the headlights of an oncoming semi, my wonderful, beautiful Megan is.
Now, before mailing it off to my waiting arms, Schmegs decided to pack the shirt tighter than Mother Theresa’s cooter. Megs wanted to be secretive regarding the package contents and I was unaware of what was trapped inside the soft plastic enveloped marked Bag ‘o Mysteries. At least I think it said Mysteries. The garbled scrawl suggests Megs had lit up prior to her scribbling and teaches us all a valuable lesson: pot and penmanship do not mix.
Thinking that the softness meant that whatever the mystery was had been entombed by bubble wrap (and not being able to peal the envelop open with the adhesive not wanting to budge) I grabbed some scissors and cut as closely to the edge as I could. Alas, it was no close enough and this was the result: 
The inch hole was cut clear through the shirt and it now looked as though I’d been shot while wearing it. Thankfully the cut narrowly missed the photograph and after some cursing of my dear friend's packing techniques we were off to Wal-Mart, the land of hope and wonder where all of life's problems can be rectified for low, low prices. Yes, folks, we were off to try to fix the Megan shirt.
Decisions…decisions. As Megs is so dear to my heart the little Valentine’esq patches would work but the kitty was sooooooooooo cute. Butterflies? Nah! She might deem the elephant a touch insulting. Where are the patches of small boys when you need them? Finding one that read her name might give the Japanese the false impression that I, myself, was named Megan. No, no, these would not do. But wait a moment! What’s that one over there?
Ah, yes, the Canadian flag would do nicely. Not only was it large enough to hide the hole but it also would be a representation of this great land of mine. Like the CN Tower and Bryan Adams, the Megan Shirt can now be held in the highest of Canadian Icon regard. 
We snatched up some a plain white material to act as a backing to the batch patch and to also cover the hole on the back of the shirt. Not bad for under five bucks. How can anybody hate Wal-Mart? It was now time to begin our repairs. 
First we laid out the patch and a debate was held on whether or not we should just cover her face altogether. We would then have something we could donate to the homeless without fearing they wouldn’t accept displaying Meg’s mug on their chest, rather being shirtless and shivering then embarrassed. Crazier minds prevailed, however, and we continued on.
Proper measurements were taken…
…and then cut to form the patch to cover up the hole.
Then it was off to heat the iron so we could affix the patch firmly over the wound I’d so brutally sliced into Megan’s gift.
I’d always wanted to run a hot iron over Megan’s face. Yes, kiddies, some dreams really do come true. I didn’t think you could get any flatter, darling. You’ve proved me wrong once again.
The white patch in place, it was time to place the flag down.
An event for the flag of one’s nation comes rarely in a lifetime. Like Armstrong planting the flag on the moon and the Marines on Iwo Jima, placing the flag on the Megan shirt will be an event remembered by Canadians the world over for centuries. I brush a tear away thinking that I was there to witness such a historical moment in time.
And now, the shirt repaired, flag unfurled and firmly laid down, I proudly placed the Megan Shirt over my head. It felt soft against my chest, like a pet kitten taken fresh out of the dryer. It was as though Megs were there with me giving me a great big hug. Wearing this shirt I felt proud to be a Canadian. I have to say, though, Megs, if you wanted to get on top of me, honey, all you had to do was ask!
So thanks Megs for this wonderful gift that symbolizes why I love you so. Your uniqueness and peculiarities are your most endearing qualities. I wouldn't trade you or this shirt for a million dollars or all the Paula Abdul albums I could eat. Sure I'll cart you along with me to Japan where you will rest in the back of my closet until I run out of rags to dust with. Come on, seriously, how do you expect me to meet girls with you plastered in the middle of my chest? Maybe I could somehow convince the Japanese that you are the Che Guevara of Canada. Seriously, Meggers, I’ll put this bugger on every now and then and snap off a few shots for you, Teo and the folks. Thanks again. It's Megtastic!
