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You're out pickin' stones with your pals the other day.
Sundays are for pickin' stones.
Tale as old as time.
Would you rather pick stones or pick worms?
Well, pickin' worms is done at night
and it can gets rather brisk.
So I'd say pickin' stones
'cause it's in the sunshines.
There's been an incident and I'd like to talk about it.
Get after it.
Well, Pitter-Patter, let's get at 'er.
Spit it out, big shoots.
I seen Stewart's horn.
What?
You seen his impaler? His bobby dangler?
Well... You seen his PhD?
His WMD? Now, look, fellas...
You seen his friendly weapon? His sticky grenade?
His ground squirrel?
Yeah, I seen his ground squirrel.
You seen Stewart's middle stump?
You've seen his custard slinger?
Well, I'm comin' up the stairs
and he's comin' out of the bathroom
just naked as a jay bird for some fuckin' reason.
I round the corner and, yeah,
so I seen his, uh... His hollow point.
His hard drive.
Well, his floppy disk is what I seen, yeah.
Well, what's the evaluation? Yeah.
I'd hear an assessment.
You wanna know what?
Looked like a tall boy can of Red Bull hangin' there.
No.
Looked like a tube of tennis balls hangin' there.
A four-pack. Shut up.
Looked like a fuckin' policeman's flashlight
from the 1980s hangin' there.
You're joking.
That is no joke.
Good job, Stewart.
That's what I said. I said, good for him.
Good for you, Stewart.
Like I'm happy for him.
Yeah, it's really good for him.
Well, it's a terrific opportunity.
Good for you, Stewart.
Pump the brakes.
Stewart isn't a really big dude.
Are you sure the size of his horn
wasn't accentuated by his really tiny frame?
Looked like a one-liter thermos hangin' there.
Because... Because, you know, a really big dude
can have a massive horn, but it would look really small
in proportion to his gigantic frame, right?
Have you been reading my diary?
I'll tell you what, it looked like
a deflated football hangin' there.
Fuck!
You wanna know what?
There's such a thing as too much horn talk
and a fella ought to be fuckin' aware of it.
Like, none of these donkeys even dip, bro.
None of these chumps even chew, bro.
Like none of these dunces ever had a dinger?
These losers never had a lipper, bro.
Like chill out, have a chaw.
Peace out, have a pull. Have a hogger.
Have a dang-er. Have a hammer.
Say hello to Sergeant Spitter, boys.
Ferda! Ferda!
Big roadie this weekend, schmelts.
Let's see some heart.
Where we goin', boys? You don't know?
Check the schedule.
This is senior A whale shit hockey!
Do you think I check the scheddy?
I don't give a shit about the scheddy.
Take a lap, lifer.
Hang 'em up, hero.
Shut it down, Tom Scheddy.
Hit the showers, Scheddy Vedder.
You're softer than Scheddy Ruxpin.
Schmelts got jokes, Yorkie.
They won't be laughing for long, Barts.
You're about to meet the Natives, boys.
The senior A Natives.
You thought the juniors were tough?
The senior Natives will fuckin' kill you.
You got the Native flu, you little bitch?
Yorkie.
That's the Native flu if I've ever seen it, Barts.
Scholtzy.
You scared of the Natives, pussy?
Fisky.
Fever. Body aches. Nausea.
All symptoms fraidy-cats fake
to get out of playing the Natives.
Boomtown.
I hate fraidy-cats like I love my wife.
Intensely.
I love her so much.
We do not have the Native flu.
No?
So what's got you looking like a fraidy-cat, you little bitch?
Yorkie.
Cacophobia?
The fear of ugliness?
Don't think so.
I'm gorgeous. Scholtzy.
Coprophobia? The fear of poop?
Nah. You both pooped your pants
when we mentioned the Natives, pussy.
Fisky.
Alektorophobia? The fear of chickens?
Uh-uh. 'Cause you'd be afraid of each other.
Boomtown.
Pentheraphobia?
Fear of your mother-in-law?
Fuck that.
I love my mother-in-law like I love my wife.
I'm a good man.
It's not the Native flu.
You're a cry baby.
You're barely off the tit, you little bitch.
Yorkie.
Put the bottle away, Mom.
He still wants the tit. Scholtzy.
You're scared of the Natives, pussy? Fisky.
Gutless.
Spineless. No heart. Boomtown.
I'm a good man.
Check the schedule, schmelts.
Know the schedule, schmelts.
Watch some Scheddy Murphy.
Pussy. Fisky.
Listen to some Scheddy Van Halen. Boomtown.
Or Sched Sheeran.
My wife loves Sched Sheeran.
Schmelts have the Native flu, boys.
Those aren't real things. I'm not checking the scheddy.
Fuck the scheddy! Fuck it! Fuck it...
Yeah!
How do you like that, schmelt?
Let me go! No! No!
Let's do it.
We, uh... We need to talk, boys.
Uh, but not to her, boys. Piss off.
You were getting squeezers from each other's
billet sisters the entire time.
Dude, did you tell her about those handys?
Who told her about the glovers, bro?
You just did.
Shit. Fuck.
Fuck it.
We got a roadie to the rez this weekend, boys.
Big roadie to play the Natives this weekend, boys.
You got the Native flu?
We do not have the Native flu.
Don't be scareds to admits it.
Those Natives are tough as hell.
Yeah, those Natives are tougher than hell.
Look, we can handle the Natives in the rink, boys.
We know we got business in their barn, boys.
But Tanis and her troops are gonna be waiting for us
in the parking lot, so we...
We need back up, boys. Hard no.
Aw, come on. Where's your jam, bud?
Not my pig. Not my farm.
Where's the sacrifice?
Oh, get off the cross, we need the wood.
We tuned 'em up on our turf just a fortnights ago.
Yeah, we step back on theirs now,
that's a suicide mission.
Mmm...
I heard Tanis wants the ban on Letterkenny lifted, too.
Then she shouldn't have burned down
the fuckin' produce stand.
Come on. Where's your goddamn hustle, bud?
Let's see the hustle, boys.
When a man asks you for help, you help him.
Pitter-Patter.
Well, I guess I haven't been in a scrap in a while.
We could go get bags of darts, too.
And their venison pepperettes are not to be missed.
I pert near popped a street meat vendor
outside of a Jays' game one time
for sellin' me a venison dog.
Ain't no goat-da-goddamn way that's venison dogs. No.
Well...
I'd go for a scrap.
We'll need reinforcements.
Joint Boy? Yeah, you could call JB.
What about... No.
Oh, you mean the Ginger? Hard no.
But? Now, everybody listen up
'cause I'm only gonna say this once,
we never talk about it again. You understand?
We all lay off the Ginger and Boots now.
Because the Ginger and Boots did not fuck an ostrich.
Yeah, I heard they fucked two ostriches.
Allegedly.
Folks'll say that it takes two people to fuck an ostrich.
Three even.
Folks are also saying that it was a sick ostrich.
Allegedly.
Now, I went on the Internet
and researched ostriches.
Firstly, ostriches can run up to 70 miles an hour.
So catching one,
even a sick one, is a super tall order.
Yeah, but there was two of them.
Secondly, when a male ostrich,
it's called a cock,
fights over a female ostrich,
they're called a hen,
they're known to kill each other
by head butting.
Probably should wear hockey helmets.
Hockey helmets, buddy.
Well, they'd need a race car helmet, likely.
Finally, ostriches use their legs to defend from predators.
And can use them to kill even their largest
and most deadly enemies, which are fuckin' lions.
That's the king of the jungle.
Still just a cat.
So you'll see there is no way
the Ginger and Boots could have fucked an ostrich.
Maybe they tranqed the ostrich.
Like they roofie'd the ostrich?
You wanna know what?
You should feel bad about even suggesting
that the Ginger and Boots fucked an ostrich.
Bad gas travels real fast in a small town.
My research concludes
that the only way the Ginger and Boots
could have fucked an ostrich
is if it was a dead ostrich.
Ginger and Boots a dead ostrich?
I thought it was just sick! Oh, my! Ginny?
The Ginger and Boots effed a dead ostrich.
Oh, bother.
Of course I know what the male ones are called!
Check my browser history.
Don't show her weakness, Stewart.
I'm not. I'm sun burnt.
Hey, you!
Hey, you.
This is awkward, but your shirt seems to have
shrunk in the wash. Not awkward.
Things shrink in the wash. How do you explain your dick?
Quick wit. Valuable asset.
Must really serve a lady of the night like you well.
He means you're a hooker.
Thanks, Roald. You speak?
Heard a song this morning that reminded me of you.
Really? So cool. What was it?
Die, Die, My Darling.
Metallica. Love 'em.
Actually, they have a song that reminds me of you, too.
Oh? Yeah.
Sad But True.
Hmm.
Why don't you run along and get your essentials?
You know, long, smooth,
cylindrical-shaped objects.
Actually, I'm just looking for some
three-inch screws to hang a frame.
Hey, you know what three inches looks like, right?
She skewered you!
Don't listen to him, Devon.
They wanted you to go to debate school.
Hey, what's up?
We... We're just goin'...
Kidding! I don't give a fuck.
Look like you got a bad case of the Native flu.
Should've brought your fuckin' bodyguards.
We do not have the Native flu, okay!
It's not the Native flu!
Right.
And one tit's better than two.
Tanis, what we want to do is go inside,
rip a couple of snap bombs and then go home.
Just wanna rip some snaps and bury some claps, Tanis.
Hack some limbs and rack some PIMS.
Lay beats and fill seats.
Yeah? Yous want to get pucks deep?
Get pucks deep. Yeah, get pucks in the net.
Shut the fuck up.
If yous think you're gonna make it into that rink,
you're fuckin' stupid.
Do some damage, boys!
Wa'tsok.
Listen, we're four lines deep
of BFI's in there ready to speed bag you space men.
What's a BFI?
Big Fuckin' Indians.
Not sure that's PC but you said it.
If you chodes walk out of there
with all your chicklets, then I'm a fuckin' ferret.
Piss off.
Cool.
That's not cool.
You ready for a chin check?
Yup.
You can avoid it if you want to.
Nope.
Hmm...
I want the ban on Letterkenny lifted.
There's some good money
that can be made selling smokes there.
Yous made your point. We fucked off.
Point's not made yet.
It's not calculus.
Finite math is worse.
Trigonometry fucked me.
I forgot long division in grade six.
Okay. Lift the ban on Letterkenny.
We'll make a buck and yous can cruise the rez.
Bags of darts? Yeah, go to the casino.
Venison pepperettes?
Yes. Go watch a fuckin' hockey game.
Mmm...
Nope.
FBIs coming.
Who's that? Fuckin' Big Indians!
Now, one of yous farted right before she got here
and she definitely thought it was me.
Dan? I'd admits it.
JB?
Would've went out my window.
Maybe she farted.
It was me.
Hey, since when did algebra become a quick wank?
I once popped my grade nine math teacher
over the Pythagorean theorem.
Did you get expelled? Just suspended.
Yep, called probability and statistics.
Like probably never gonna need them
statistics in your whole life.
That's kind of like fractions.
Like multiplying and dividing them.
Like who the fuck's doin' that?
My friend David does tool and dye and he uses fractions.
Should have just got his fridge ticket.
David has his fridge ticket.
Then he should just drive truck.
Well, it's never too late to drive truck.
Oh!
Eyelash. Make a wish.
Wish you weren't so fuckin' awkward, bud.
Five minutes!
Yup.
You ready, bro? Born ready, buddy.
You stretch it out, bro?
Good and limber, bro.
I say we get a couple of shifts in
before we answer the bell.
Get a couple of shifts in before tea time.
Get that first shot in and just keep goin', buddy.
Don't hesitate, buddy.
Take a shift, schmelts.
Ooh!
Pulled salad in the scrum.
Got a mitt full, boys.
You get any good shots in?
Think I was on my feet for a bit there, bro.
Hey, are you hurt or are you injured?
Ah! Don't...
100% pure organic, grass-fed, Triple A Alberta beef.
Better believe it's 'Berta beef.
What you got there? Top sirloins?
Yeah, the New Yorks are grain-fed.
Three times the omega-3's in grass-fed.
Bought and paid for.
Well, you're gonna want 'em aged if they're top sirloins.
Pump the brakes.
Two things. One.
We'll let those sit for 10 to 15 minutes
till they're room temperature.
Two. Where's the salt and pepper, bud?
Don't you fuckin' start.
S and P, the choice for me.
I paid a C-hair just shy of 20
for each of these C-suckers
and I will not be told how to cook 'em.
You paid 20 apiece for 'Berta beef?
Only 'Berta beef. Well, no guff.
But I wouldn't pay 20 apiece for Japanese wagyu.
Always 'Berta beef. Hard yes.
But I wouldn't pay 20 apiece for Australian wagyu.
Gonna want a rib eye if it's a wagyu.
One-inch thick top sirloin.
Grill at 400.
Four minutes a side. Down the hatch.
You are fuckin' up, bud. That's textbook.
Not without the S and P.
Those fine ranchers in Alberta'd be a C-hair away
from not sendin' it here if they knew you were
sprinklin' salt all over the C-suckers.
You're a C-hair away from gettin'
C-suckin' socked, good buddy.
Montreal steak spice really
should be a part of this conversation.
One-inch thick top sirloin steak.
Salt and pepper heavily.
Grill at 400. Four minutes total.
Flip each minute to get the good grill marks.
Let sit for two minutes. Down the hatch.
Flip twice. Grill marks, bud.
Sacrilege. I will strike you.
Blasphemy. Do you wanna get striked?
Finish the whole thing off with a real nice herbs and garlics butter.
Don't fuck up my steak dinner, Dary!
Any decent chef will tell you,
you don't even want to let those things touch the grill.
Make it dryer than a fart.
What ya wanna do, pan sear it,
both sides, finish her off in the ovens.
Well, see, now that sounds like over-handling to me.
You'd be over-handling them, Squirrelly Dan.
Well, he'd be Squirrelly Dan'dling.
Oh, yeah, me and Gordon Ramsay are both morons.
You wanna know what? Meet half way.
All right, no S and P, flip twice.
Good. Rare to medium rare. Medium rare.
Yo!
Ding, ding, pink dicks.
This one's mine.
Throw them steaks on, Dary, this won't take long.
Oh!
Remember me, boys?
Where's that 'Berta beef?
Grill marks, bud.
That's the two-fight rule for the win, boys.
Two fights, that's your night, buddy.
Hmm. Hey, did you get any good shots in?
No good ones, bro.
He fish-hooked me,
so I chomped his finger.
He gave me a pretty good seatbelt,
so I pinched the shit out of the back of his arm, buddy.
I fuckin' hate when that happens.
He did too, buddy.
Hey.
We would have dusted them if they hadn't jumped us.
Proper dustin', ferda.
Oh, shit! Fuck, buddy.
We would have dusted them if they didn't jump us.
Proper dustin', ferda.
Hey, shirt-tucker!
That doesn't really narrow it down.
You. Meet me half way.
I'll level with you. We have a BFI on stand-by
that will fuck you up. K.
He'll lynch you. Good.
He'll end you. That's redundant.
You can end this if you lift the ban.
You burned down our produce stand, Tanis.
Listen. I don't want to call him.
You can call him. Yeah, but I don't want to.
Ah, give him a call.
I'd rather work this out with you.
Too much talk. Wait, wait, wait!
We're having a really hard time on the rez, okay?
And selling cigarettes in Letterkenny really helps us out.
And all of the money goes back into the community.
This dude doesn't exist, does he?
I want you to meet someone.
Dustin!
We don't have a lot of money.
And I'd sure like to play baseball.
Please lift the ban, Wayne.
You can get a glove for free at the Sally Anne.
Just have Mom or Dad drive you down there.
Don't, uh...
Don't care much for kids, so...
Bubba Wally!
The cupboards are bare in the elders' lodge.
And we're so tired and sore.
Please lift the ban, Wayne.
I've got plenty of fresh produce on the farm.
Yous are welcome to it.
Lego!
Oh, fuck...
A three-legged dog.
And look, Wayne, another three-legged dog.
It's cute, huh?
Yous can come back once per week.
Saturday mornings. Set up shop
in the farmers' market parking lot.
We'll spread the word.
Nia-wen.
Does this dude exist or not?
Mmm.
Pitter-Patter!
Hey, Katy. Carrying lunch there?
Yeah. You want a bite?
Who's this? He looks just like you.
You actually look great today,
you know, in comparison to this bag of shit.
Thank you. You're welcome.
So? So?
Still an unapologetically promiscuous tart?
Yep. Still a heartbreakingly
inadequate chronic masturbator?
No! Hi, Roald.
Whatever! Stewart,
you and I were a bad idea.
Evident.
But I still think you're cool.
Adios.
Hey, Devon.
Ugh!
Want a bite?
So what say that dude exists?
He doesn't.
Yeah, but what say that he did?
What if he walks up and hoofs
you right in the nuts like Joint Boy?
JB's right, it's him or you.
But a kick in the undercarriage?
Did Tanis ever recover when I hoofed her?
I think she kind of did...
Just kiddin'. I don't give a fuck.
You still sweet on her, though, Dary?
No. Why?
Bonnie McMurray, that's why.
You're sweet on Bonnie McMurray?
Oh, you bet I am. Ha. Same.
Well, it's no fuckin' mystery, Murdoch.
Better to be the dude doin' the hoofin' than the dude gettin' hoofed.
Or the girl gettin' hoofed.
Exhibit A. Tanis.
But a kicks in the cojones?
Well, it's too late once you've been hoofed
in the nuts, isn't it?
You stand there holdin' your ball sack
wondering why you didn't hoof first.
Or you stand there holdin' your box
wondering why you never hoofed first.
So what you're sayings is if that dudes existed...
We've already established
the dude doesn't fuckin' exist, have we not?
You'd kick him right in the pills?
I'm fuckin' irritated.
Would you kick him right in the pillbox?
I'm gonna go see what's on television.
We're just speakin' hypo-ethically here, bud.
Ain't no reason to get upset, Wayne!
Save me an Indian taco.
How're you now? Does the dude exist or not?
No. Yous worked through our finest.
No one else measures up. Yet.
Stay for a barbecue? No, thank you.
Stay.
What are yous cookin'? Wagyu.
Wagyu? Wagyu New York.
I was told you should go for the rib-eye if it's a wagyu.
Duh. How you cookin 'em?
One-inch thick wagyu, New Yorks.
Heavily salt and peppered.
Grill at 400. Four minutes total.
Flip once a minute for those good grill marks.
Let sit for two minutes and then down the hatch.
Flip once a minute, eh?
Grill marks, bud.
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