What happened, Canada? We used to be cool. We used to share fond memories of Niagara Falls and the Toronto Airport and the manatee exhibit of the Vancouver Aquarium. 

When did you produce so many bros?

This week's post is going to be a short one. I'm somewhat burned out this week with a multitude of jobs trying to capture all of my immediate interest. 

Last week was my one-year victory lap of 200 IDs. This past weekend saw that climb to 209 on the back of four true-blue fakes on Friday and two girls who forgot how to spell their IDs' first names on Saturday. 

It was nothing special. I did discover my monthly average between August 2016 and August 2017 was 17.25 fake IDs per month.

Keep in mind I did not work Labor Day Weekend, Thanksgiving, St. Paddy's Day, and the week before, during and after July 4.

Mighty nice. 

Now back to the Canadians. Those Bastards.

I was not supposed to work Tuesday night. In fact, I have only ever worked two Tuesday nights at the bar prior. Once during a holiday lead-up and the second the night of a minor league championship celebration. 

But each featured far less of a Northern Influence. 

I am not exaggerating when I say 100 Canadians came into the bar between midnight and 1 a.m. We had Ontarians, Ottawans, Quebecois, Albertans and a smattering of the populace who bring their Health Services card.  

And not one of them mentioned curling. 

Cut to me cleaning up and checking IDs on the clock, job No. 3 of the day, only to find me at 1:59 a.m. staring down six Canucks trying to squeeze out every last drop of Busch Light they can get.

Busch. Light.

Buuuuuuuuuuuuussssscccccchhhhhhhhhh. Light.

The time comes for them to finally leave. They've been a decent customer base, so I give them a few minutes and plenty of foreknowledge that it is time to go, but they're not listening. 

I ask them a final, stern time to get them to leave at 2:03 a.m. but they don't budge. I've got a busser's bucket in tow, full of empty and half-empty cans ready to be dumped and sorted.

It's one on six. Why can't people just go home?

We start with circa-2008 Sydney Crosby trying to deke around me on his way to the bucket. His hand dives deep into the bucket and catches someone's splish-splashed Busch Light and proceeds to chug away. 

My first thought is ... herpes. Or, at least Hep C.

My second thought happens once I'm already out the door shoving Crosby out the entryway, with Nash, Stills, Young, Dumb and Dumber giving chase.

That thought is -- Fuckin' Canadians.

You were supposed to be nice. 

At this point, we're all outside, my ultimate goal. But as I only wanted them to release the beers, they thought I was trying to fight Crosby. At the end of the night, I was left with two more things. I was covered in cheap beer and cold sweat.

And it takes six Canadians to "hold me back."

Now I've got that benchmark for future scenarios like if the Milwaukee Bucks need me to get some team fouls against the Toronto Raptors. I'll be wrecking that shit in front of Drake. Fear the Deer. #GiannisMVP

Like I said at the top, I did not have much for this week.

To any Canadians out there, I can be bribed to get you back into my good graces.

Maple cookies are the best option, followed by maple syrup and any signed memorabilia from the cast of Men With Brooms.