Scene: Seven friends are seated at the bar at Neighbors (you wish you were there) watching the US/Canada Olympic hockey game. Two are Canadian, the other five are USAmerican, and all of them are awesome. Except for the Canadians (BITCH WHAT I SAID IT, EH?)
(Sidenote: if you are not one of the seven people that was there, you will probably find this post tedious. Deal with it. Have some soup.)
"Whatever, look at those helmets! Who fucking designed those, Ed Hardy?" Smith Sister Sav giggles and sips her bloody mary.
"Seriously?" I snap and point at the TV above the bar. "Those masks are awesome. Look at it - that's Uncle Sam beating your Canadian ass with a hockey stick that's on fire. And on the other side? That's an eagle with like, fucking adamantium claws or talons or whatever."
"Do the chickens have large talons?" Schmee mumbles.
"HA! Do the chickens have large talons?"
Smith Sister WJ is whiny. "But our helmets are all classy, with our maple leaves, and they're all shiny and pretty."
"They would be better if they were blue."
"Red, white and blue."
"Or just blue like Sav's lame-ass blue Canadia tattoo." Slinger laughs at himself and drinks his Budweiser like a fucking champ. Like an American champ.
"You know what?" Smith Sister Sav declares, snapping with more hostility than she originally intended. "Why don't you show them your fucking blue sun tattoo?"
Slinger ignores her.
"I fucking hate that thing," Schmee shakes her head, eyes glued on the TV.
I raise my eyebrows at Slinger. "You got a tattoo of a blue sun? I don't wanna sit next to you no more."
"Sometimes people have oddly blue tattoos. What?"
"And sometimes TEAM USA SCHOOLS YOUR ASS AT HOCKEY." High-five.
"What was the rationale behind your blue tattoos, anyway?" I ask.
Smith Sister Sav goes back to her bloody mary, avoiding my eyes. "I don't wanna talk about it. Can we please talk about something else?"
"Sure, let's talk about your back-ass boondock country."
"Which is fake," Schmee chimes.
"You know what? Okay, fine, let's hear this. How are we from a fake country?"
"Seriously, I fucking love those helmets!"
Slinger laughs. "Do you guys even have a navy?"
"Of course they do, they're called mounties." Everyone looks at me. "Horses can swim."
"Haven't you seen Wild Hearts Can't Broken?"
"Was that in Canada?" Anway asks.
"No, swimming horses."
"I never liked that movie."
"Bitch, you know you're jealous."
"I wish I had a queen to cry to."
"Hey," Slinger stretches back, "if we give you Wisconsin, can we have your curling team?"
"They have cheese there, eh?"
The bartender comes over to drop of Smith Sister Sav's burger and fat plate of potato skins for Scott, her armcandy, who never speaks or drinks but he digs into his food with zeal. I look at the pile of dirty napkins and onion ring baskets and empty bottles in front of me and try to drag the bartender's attention with my eyes but it totally doesn't work.
"Please take these empties," I mutter, to no one in general, and slide my bottle onto the rail behind the bar. The bartender ignores me.
"She's never gonna clean it up," Slinger says quietly, annoyed. "It's been sitting there forever."
"I know, I don't want to look at it," I agree. I scowl at an empty bowl of chili.
"She's probably from Canada."
"Most definitely." Even onion rings get rejected. It looks sticky. I should order a water, it's really snowing outside. Bitch. Oh! Patty melts are seven bucks.
I snatch a fry from Smith Sister Sav and smile brilliantly. "See this?" I shove it into my mouth. "Round here in the U.S. of A. we call that manifest destiny."
Sav squints and snarls, "You know who invented those fries, right?"
After a few moments of intense silence, where I'm sure everyone was just trying to sit there and think of proper banter, Anway speaks up. "You know, every Olympics I always want your people to wear Canadian tuxedos, and it never fucking happens," he muses.
"Agreed, that's horseshit."
"Oh, but it could happen, now they have those pajamas that look like jeans."
"Like the snowboarding team."
"Like the snowboarding team." Echoes all around. "Exactly."
"You guys are a bunch of fucking Denim Dans," I yell, and slump back into my beer. Chair. Beer.
The bartender comes over and clears all the nastiness away and I ask for a water.
"Nothing is more bad ass than that helmet, I swear to fucking god."
"What's the Canadian tuxedo?" both Smith Sisters ask, glancing down at their own red-and-white-maple-leafed-Canadiawear which isn't nearly as cool as our Americanwear.
"Are you fucking serious? You don't know your own home jersey?"
"All demin, head-to-toe," me and Anway explain. Perfect unison.
I swivel toward him. "Fucking jinx, bitch."
"The Canadian Tuxedo."
"How is that the Canadian Tuxedo?"
"I don't know. Because all Canadians live in Trailer Parks and weave their own Levi's."
"Have they discovered fire in Canada?"
Schmee's on it like Team USA on ice. "No, we brought it to them with the Olympic torch."
"Speaking of which," Smith Sister WJ adds, "I think Uncle Sam is holding the torch on the goalie mask."
"I like a flaming hockey stick better," I snap, "Because the Canadians are all 'fire bad!' and they totally run away."
"Okay, Ross, that was a bad one."
"Sor." I feel shamed. "Whatever, that doesn't change the fact that you're gonna get housed."
"You know what? I don't have to listen to this," Smith Sister Sav says. "This game doesn't even count anyway." She pops her maple-leaf jacket collar in frustration and furiously hides behind a copy of Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul.
Seriously. That happened. She pulled it out of her purse.
And then we all laughed like we were in a movie or something.