Well we've got a few Canadians here...


I'm not unemployed, or smuggling cigarettes across the border.
I don't eat Pepsi and May Wests for breakfast.
I don't watch the hockey game doin' it doggy style.
And non, I don't know Claude, Manon or François in Abitibi-Témiscamingue;
but I'm sure dey all 'ave nice teeth.

I smoke in church.
I speak Québécois and Joual; not French or h'English [sic];
and I pronounce it 'turd', not 'third'.
And eating french fries with cheese makes sense, mon esti;

I believe in distinct society – as long as someone else pays for it.
I believe in language police, not equal rights.
And, calice, I believe that "Club Super Sexe" is an appropriate place
for my wife and me to celebrate our anniversaire!
(What da hell, she goes on at ten, anyway! )

In Québec, the Stanley Cup actually comes round more often than Halley's Comet.
I can get beer at the dépanneur, not at the convenience store.
And maybe I can't turn right on a red light, but, tabarnac, I can go
right through it!

Because Québec is the world's largest producer of maple syrup, the
'ome of Céline Dion and Roch Voisine;
The land where everybody is shackin' up, and the legal drinking age is
just a suggestion.
Je m'appelle Guy - and I am not Canadian. (Mautadit tabarnac esti...)