The Stanley Cup is Not a Sex Toy (1/?)
anonymous
April 2 2010, 05:57:14 UTC
The Stanley Cup is Not a Sex Toy
“Right then,” said Canada, slamming the jar of maple syrup on the table. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or are we playing Twenty Questions?”
Seated before a towering plate of untouched pancakes, America scowled. He’d been scowling, in fact, most of the morning. “I don’t know, what makes you think there’s something wrong?”
“You haven’t eaten. Anything.”
“So?”
“So,” Canada pointed out, hand on his hip, “the only time you don’t eat food that’s in front of you is when you’re on your sickbed or it’s tofu. You don’t have a temperature, that is most definitely not tofu, and you’re still not eating anything.” He added, with more fondness than he’d care to admit, “I’m five seconds from calling your armed forces and reporting a national crisis. Why don’t you just come out with it?”
America stared at him. Then, he directed his frown down at the pancakes and stuffed a forkful in his mouth. Chewing, he mulishly remained silent.
Canada sighed.
Sometimes there was just no helping it-if he waited it out, his brother would fess up sooner or later. Staying quiet about something that was bothering him was impossible for America, though he put up a good front in the initial phase. Canada went back to the stove to shut the gas off, his mouth pursed and mood disappointed. He’d been hoping for a nice, playful breakfast with America before he had to send his brother home for the week ahead. It wasn’t as often that they got to stay together a few nights in a row.
A few wonderful, sleepless nights in a row.
It was those nights that Canada was contemplating when America nervously cleared his throat. It took a few times, but eventually Canada turned from the kitchen counter with an owlish blink.
America scratched his ear. “Hey, so… There might be something wrong.”
Oh. Oh, his brother was lucky Canada loved him so. “Something wrong, eh?” he asked dryly, folding his arms as he leaned back into the counter edge. “Let’s hear it.”
“Well,” America hedged, his fork drawing small circles in the puddle of maple syrup left on his plate, “it’s just, y’know, I was in town a few days ago and there was this valley girl, and she was talkin’ to her girlfriends in front of me while I was waiting in line at Starbucks-they have those yummy new caramel gingerbread lattes-and she was talkin’ about your history…”
Where on heaven is this going? Canada wondered. He tilted his head, listening but puzzled.
“In fact, what she said was, ‘What, you don’t know about Canada’s history?’ Which, I mean, that’s kind of obvious ‘cause not a lot of people do-no offense-but then she went on to explain it to her friend, um, in very vivid detail really quiet, but I could still hear and then I had to leave because-it’s just that, I don’t-did you really-”
“America,” Canada interrupted, because he could and it was his kitchen, and also because he had the lingering suspicion that this involved 1812 again, “you know that you can’t believe everything you hear on the street. She’s a valley girl.”
America pouted. “So’s Poland.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He could be, if he wanted to be less awesome.”
“America.”
“She said you filled the Stanley Cup with maple syrup and then you committed a depraved sexual act with it!” cried America.
The kitchen entered a null void.
“Say what?” asked Canada, after a long moment. He thought distantly about fixing that problem with his ear canal that gave him auditory hallucinations about America accusing him of fucking the Stanley Cup. Maybe take some pills or something for it.
Slumping in the chair, America looked profoundly miserable. “She said that… Canada’s history was… that you…”
“Mm-hm.”
“That you,” and America’s voice got even smaller, “cut off the antlers of a livin’ moose and dipped them… in the syrup and shoved them… inside two women eating each other out, and…"
Canada whacked the side of his head. No, still having hearing problems.
“And then you masturbated over ‘em and sang God Save the Queen, Eh and then ran outside to violate the moose again…”
“I do have my own national anthem now,” said Canada.
“Right then,” said Canada, slamming the jar of maple syrup on the table. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or are we playing Twenty Questions?”
Seated before a towering plate of untouched pancakes, America scowled. He’d been scowling, in fact, most of the morning. “I don’t know, what makes you think there’s something wrong?”
“You haven’t eaten. Anything.”
“So?”
“So,” Canada pointed out, hand on his hip, “the only time you don’t eat food that’s in front of you is when you’re on your sickbed or it’s tofu. You don’t have a temperature, that is most definitely not tofu, and you’re still not eating anything.” He added, with more fondness than he’d care to admit, “I’m five seconds from calling your armed forces and reporting a national crisis. Why don’t you just come out with it?”
America stared at him. Then, he directed his frown down at the pancakes and stuffed a forkful in his mouth. Chewing, he mulishly remained silent.
Canada sighed.
Sometimes there was just no helping it-if he waited it out, his brother would fess up sooner or later. Staying quiet about something that was bothering him was impossible for America, though he put up a good front in the initial phase. Canada went back to the stove to shut the gas off, his mouth pursed and mood disappointed. He’d been hoping for a nice, playful breakfast with America before he had to send his brother home for the week ahead. It wasn’t as often that they got to stay together a few nights in a row.
A few wonderful, sleepless nights in a row.
It was those nights that Canada was contemplating when America nervously cleared his throat. It took a few times, but eventually Canada turned from the kitchen counter with an owlish blink.
America scratched his ear. “Hey, so… There might be something wrong.”
Oh. Oh, his brother was lucky Canada loved him so. “Something wrong, eh?” he asked dryly, folding his arms as he leaned back into the counter edge. “Let’s hear it.”
“Well,” America hedged, his fork drawing small circles in the puddle of maple syrup left on his plate, “it’s just, y’know, I was in town a few days ago and there was this valley girl, and she was talkin’ to her girlfriends in front of me while I was waiting in line at Starbucks-they have those yummy new caramel gingerbread lattes-and she was talkin’ about your history…”
Where on heaven is this going? Canada wondered. He tilted his head, listening but puzzled.
“In fact, what she said was, ‘What, you don’t know about Canada’s history?’ Which, I mean, that’s kind of obvious ‘cause not a lot of people do-no offense-but then she went on to explain it to her friend, um, in very vivid detail really quiet, but I could still hear and then I had to leave because-it’s just that, I don’t-did you really-”
“America,” Canada interrupted, because he could and it was his kitchen, and also because he had the lingering suspicion that this involved 1812 again, “you know that you can’t believe everything you hear on the street. She’s a valley girl.”
America pouted. “So’s Poland.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He could be, if he wanted to be less awesome.”
“America.”
“She said you filled the Stanley Cup with maple syrup and then you committed a depraved sexual act with it!” cried America.
The kitchen entered a null void.
“Say what?” asked Canada, after a long moment. He thought distantly about fixing that problem with his ear canal that gave him auditory hallucinations about America accusing him of fucking the Stanley Cup. Maybe take some pills or something for it.
Slumping in the chair, America looked profoundly miserable. “She said that… Canada’s history was… that you…”
“Mm-hm.”
“That you,” and America’s voice got even smaller, “cut off the antlers of a livin’ moose and dipped them… in the syrup and shoved them… inside two women eating each other out, and…"
Canada whacked the side of his head. No, still having hearing problems.
“And then you masturbated over ‘em and sang God Save the Queen, Eh and then ran outside to violate the moose again…”
“I do have my own national anthem now,” said Canada.
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