Gather around the fire, my young warriors, and I will tell you of how hockey came to be.
In the time of our grandfathers' grandfathers' grandfathers, when the Second Nations were still new to the land, in a place our people call Eetchimakapeliahowkahtinnawannadrinka, which means "Damn, this place is so dull the whities can have it for all we care," that the Second Nations call New Brunswick, Blacques Jacques DuLacques was leading his band of hardy Acadian fisherman up from the shore, oars over their shoulders, for a well-deserved drink at the tavern at the end of a hard day's work. At the same time, Dougie McKenzie was leading his band of hearty Scots-Irish lumberjacks down from the hills, axes over their shoulders, for a well-deserved drink at the tavern at the end of a hard day's work. The two groups met in the ice-covered parking lot of the tavern, which the owner had thoughtfully built in anticipation of the invention of the automobile some eighty years later, and as French Canadians and English Canadians are wont to do, began beating on each other with the iconic tools of their respective trades.
Just as the blood was beginning to flow freely, a clatter of hooves announced the arrival of Constable Constipated of the Northwest Mounted Police.
Wait a minute, grandfather. What the heck was an NWMP constable doing in New Brunswick?
You have keen ears, young one. But all Canadian origin myths have to have Mounties. Now shut your damn yap or I'll shut it for you. Where was I? Oh, yeah. . .
of the Northwest Mounted Police. Realizing that both his crew and Dougie McKenzies were about to be arrested in the name of an old woman across the sea, Blacques Jacques DuLacques had a sudden inspiration, and seized one of the rock-hard, charred bannocks off the trash pile. Throwing it down in the middle of the brawlers, he started whacking it around with his oar. When Constable Constipated began to announce his arrest of the men. . .
Grandfather, it sounds like this was the late 1820s. The NWMP wasn't even formed until 1876!
Young warrior, you have studied well. How would you like to continue your education at the residential school? No? Then shut the f*ck up.
. . . Blacques Jacques said "Non, M'sieu le Constable! Theese eese not a fight! Sacre bleu! Incroyable! Eet eese a GAM!"
"A what?" said Constable Constipated.
"A GAM! A GAM!" cried Blacques Jacques.
"Oh, a GAME" replied Constable Constipated.
"Oui! But of course! A gam!" said Blacques Jacques.
"Eh?" added Dougie McKenzie.
Now, in these times, young ones, Mounties were required to be at least six feet tall, and required to have IQs lower than their height in inches, so Constable Constipated actually bought this arrant bullsh*t, and left them to their pursuits.
Thus, our national sport is the result of a stupid Mountie, a lying scumbag Frog fisherman, and a dull-witted Scots-Irish lumberjack. Which may explain why we can't win a Stanley Cup.
In the time of our grandfathers' grandfathers' grandfathers, when the Second Nations were still new to the land, in a place our people call Eetchimakapeliahowkahtinnawannadrinka, which means "Damn, this place is so dull the whities can have it for all we care," that the Second Nations call New Brunswick, Blacques Jacques DuLacques was leading his band of hardy Acadian fisherman up from the shore, oars over their shoulders, for a well-deserved drink at the tavern at the end of a hard day's work. At the same time, Dougie McKenzie was leading his band of hearty Scots-Irish lumberjacks down from the hills, axes over their shoulders, for a well-deserved drink at the tavern at the end of a hard day's work. The two groups met in the ice-covered parking lot of the tavern, which the owner had thoughtfully built in anticipation of the invention of the automobile some eighty years later, and as French Canadians and English Canadians are wont to do, began beating on each other with the iconic tools of their respective trades.
Just as the blood was beginning to flow freely, a clatter of hooves announced the arrival of Constable Constipated of the Northwest Mounted Police.
Wait a minute, grandfather. What the heck was an NWMP constable doing in New Brunswick?
You have keen ears, young one. But all Canadian origin myths have to have Mounties. Now shut your damn yap or I'll shut it for you. Where was I? Oh, yeah. . .
of the Northwest Mounted Police. Realizing that both his crew and Dougie McKenzies were about to be arrested in the name of an old woman across the sea, Blacques Jacques DuLacques had a sudden inspiration, and seized one of the rock-hard, charred bannocks off the trash pile. Throwing it down in the middle of the brawlers, he started whacking it around with his oar. When Constable Constipated began to announce his arrest of the men. . .
Grandfather, it sounds like this was the late 1820s. The NWMP wasn't even formed until 1876!
Young warrior, you have studied well. How would you like to continue your education at the residential school? No? Then shut the f*ck up.
. . . Blacques Jacques said "Non, M'sieu le Constable! Theese eese not a fight! Sacre bleu! Incroyable! Eet eese a GAM!"
"A what?" said Constable Constipated.
"A GAM! A GAM!" cried Blacques Jacques.
"Oh, a GAME" replied Constable Constipated.
"Oui! But of course! A gam!" said Blacques Jacques.
"Eh?" added Dougie McKenzie.
Now, in these times, young ones, Mounties were required to be at least six feet tall, and required to have IQs lower than their height in inches, so Constable Constipated actually bought this arrant bullsh*t, and left them to their pursuits.
Thus, our national sport is the result of a stupid Mountie, a lying scumbag Frog fisherman, and a dull-witted Scots-Irish lumberjack. Which may explain why we can't win a Stanley Cup.
