Last week a Canadian friend—I know that sounds like an oxymoron—openly mocked me via electronic media about our country’s election results, which apparently went his way…while mine? Not so much.
He disparaged with implied Canadian accent—how long are we going to look the other way on how they pronounce “about?”—all my favorite candidates as well as their personal beliefs and principles.
I told him he puts the “twit” in “Twitter.”
He didn’t have a comeback. He’s Canadian.
Does anyone know the difference between “Canadian bacon” and straight-up ham? That’s like us calling squid “American octopus.”
I sez to him, I sez, “Do I tell you which fur trapper to elect to your tribal council? Do I make unflattering remarks about the Inuit tribesmen or whatever nomadic hunter-gatherers comprise your government?”
Actually, I do that all the time but he doesn’t know that. Those were rhetorical questions meant to make a point about sticking his Canadian nose in our bidniz.
As far as I’m concerned, Canada is just Wisconsin, only not as avant-garde or cutting-edge.
In Canada they eat something called “poutine” which sounds awfully French to me. Lest we forget, Canada has French people in it and that’s nothing to write home about. Nor is it license to poke fun at other nations’ statesmen.
Just out of curiosity, what’s “French bacon” like?
This “poutine” consists of a heapin’ helpin’ o’ Freedom Fries with “cheese curds” and smothered in a thick, viscous brown gravy.
Name ONE other thing we should be envious of them over.
Remember “hippies” and how horrible they were and how much they tried to subvert our American way of life—which, last time I checked, included bathing?
Some of the worst ones were Canadians!
There was that, that Neil Young—ugh, shudder—he was Canadian and a eunuch.
I’ll bet you any amount of money that’s where that Bruce Springsteen is from.
Crash Test Dummies, Cowboy Junkies, Pearl Jam—bands that make your skin crawl!
And that Joni Mitchell, a “folkie” (read: skank) who sang a song that went: “Hey farmer farmer, put away the DDT, now. Give me spots on my apples but leave me the birds and the bees.”
As an American, I tend to like dumbo gruntcake bands such as Uriah Heep and Molly Hatchet, neither of whom has ever written a song about pesticides.
And who calls a farmer “farmer farmer?”
Welcome to Canada. Take a bite of our nice socialist apple, replete with brown spots and bird droppings, while getting stung by bees—bees emboldened and empowered by the banning of DDT in 1972 and out for revenge.
Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone?
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