This round so totally goes to Canada. Why? Well, let’s see…what did the widely respected Guardian have as a front-page headline two days ago?
Queen’s Grandson to Marry in Castle.
Like, duh. You think he’s going to do it in a graveyard at midnight, a Vegas Chapel of Luv, or some unpronounceable South American bureaucrat’s office? No; he’s Peter Fucking Phillips and he is going to goddam well get married at Windsor Castle and we DO NOT NEED A NEWSPAPER to tell us that.
The story, strangely, appears to be offline now. Perhaps they came to their senses, or perhaps I’m not the first to have remarked on the remarkable stupidity of that headline.
And what, you may ask, is this world-beating entry from the Socialist Republic of Canuckistan? Just this:
He’s Eating My Brain! I Can Feel It!
Naturally, it takes more than a grizzly bear attack in which he gnaws on your brain to keep a Canadian down; the fellow actually picked himself up after the bear was done with him and drove himself 25 kilometres to a gas station, where they called for help.
His hands were so swollen and bloody, he could barely get his keys out of his pocket, said Case, an experienced outdoorsman.
“I knew that if I didn’t drive and have the fortitude to control things, I was going to die.”
Case then drove 25 agonizing kilometres to the closest town to seek help. He finally reached a gas station and asked the attendant to call for an ambulance.
“I think my brains are hanging out,” he said. “I don’t know what’s happening here, but I’m alive. I started wiggling my fingers and toes…”
“I said [to the doctors], ‘There’s nothing hanging out that you’re not telling me?’ They said, ‘No, you’re OK'”
“They started using the peroxide and, ‘Ooh,’ I said, ‘that hurt more than the bear!'”
Badassery. We haz it.