New Yorkers, we are among you -- we Canadians -- though you are usually unaware. Unless, perhaps, it's the season of Stanley Cup Finals -- usually a torpid June week in Manhattan -- and you notice loud, polite groups of us in neighbourhood bars, cheering on our Vancouver Canucks, Montreal Canadiens, Toronto Maple Leafs, Ottawa Senators, or our freshly-minted Winnipeg Jets, against one or another team of hireling Canadians decked out in the garish jerseys of some sunbelt city where ice has never been produced by natural means.

By the way, what do you say to six drunk Canadian defencemen to persuade them to quietly exit the hotel's hot tub?

Try, "Can you get out of the hot tub now, please?" Works every time. Do not forget the "please."

Oh, we are nice. We weren't always. "Canadian gangsters" may seem an oxymoron, but in the days of your prohibition, squads of us made serious moola and some gunplay while pouring our excellent rye whiskey over the border into backwoods Vermont then down the spout of U.S. Route 7, to be shaken or stirred in the highball glasses of Gatsbyesque Manhattan. In fact, Fitzgerald hinted that Jay Gatsby himself was likely one of our[...]

[Published in GreenNews - Read the original article]