NorthernRedneck
Well-known member
An Open Letter to the United States of America
(Now in Pure Newfoundland Sass)
Lard tunderin’, ‘Merica—
Sit yer arse down, b’y. No foolin’ now. I ain’t got time fer yer foolishness, so park it and listen up. There’s been some mighty strange talk driftin’ across da border, somethin’ ‘bout takin’ Canada by force. Oh me nerves! What in da name o’ codfish is wrong wit’ ye? Did ye get into da moose milk again, or is someone slippin’ somethin’ into yer sweet tea?
Now listen here, me ducky, I knows ye got a big mouth on ya—but bless yer cotton socks, ye got da memory o’ a stunned squid. Last time ye tried to tangle wit’ us? War of 1812, b’y! We sent ye packin’ faster than a Newfoundlander runnin’ to happy hour, and don’t ye forget—we even lit up yer White House like it was da Regatta fireworks. Yer welcome fer da free reno, by da way. Probably da last time it had a proper washin’.
And as fer that racket ‘bout “takin’ Canada”—Lord jumpin’ dyin’, have ye got a death wish or what? We might be known fer sayin’ "sorry" when you step on our feet, but buddy, that ain’t ‘cause we’re soft. No sir! We’re tougher than a two-dollar steak at a roadside diner. And let’s not even get started on da hockey, b’y. Did ye not just see us wipe da ice wit’ yer team at da Championship? We don’t play hockey fer fun—we live it. Youse was skatin’ around like you was lost lookin’ fer a Tim’s drivethru.
And would ya ever smarten up and remember all da times we hauled yer arse outta trouble? Two World Wars—who was there early, drinkin’ tea an’ ready fer a scrap? Us. Afghanistan? Yep, we showed up with bells on. And every time yer forests catch fire, who’s sendin’ plane loads o’ folks to save yer bacon? That’s right. We even took yer celebrities—Ryan Reynolds? Canadian. Celine Dion? Ours. Justin Bieber... well, we’re still sorry fer dat one.
Now I knows ye get carried away sometimes, b’y, but here’s da thing—Canada ain’t somethin’ ye just take. We’re like a cold winter storm: nice to look at from afar, but ye get too close an’ you’ll be flat on yer arse wonderin’ what hit ya. We got geese that’ll chase ye to da ends o’ da earth, moose bigger than yer pickup trucks, and don’t even tempt da beavers—they’re little fury chainsaws on legs.
So here’s what ye do: Take a deep breath, pour yerself some real maple syrup (not dat fake corn goop ye got down there), and cool yer jets. We ain’t interested in a scrap, but if ye come sniffin’ ‘round with foolishness... well, let’s just say we got hockey sticks an’ we ain’t afraid to use ‘em.
With love, sass, and a wink that says “don’t test me,”
Kind as a nan’s hug, fierce as a nor’easter.
(Now in Pure Newfoundland Sass)
Lard tunderin’, ‘Merica—
Sit yer arse down, b’y. No foolin’ now. I ain’t got time fer yer foolishness, so park it and listen up. There’s been some mighty strange talk driftin’ across da border, somethin’ ‘bout takin’ Canada by force. Oh me nerves! What in da name o’ codfish is wrong wit’ ye? Did ye get into da moose milk again, or is someone slippin’ somethin’ into yer sweet tea?
Now listen here, me ducky, I knows ye got a big mouth on ya—but bless yer cotton socks, ye got da memory o’ a stunned squid. Last time ye tried to tangle wit’ us? War of 1812, b’y! We sent ye packin’ faster than a Newfoundlander runnin’ to happy hour, and don’t ye forget—we even lit up yer White House like it was da Regatta fireworks. Yer welcome fer da free reno, by da way. Probably da last time it had a proper washin’.
And as fer that racket ‘bout “takin’ Canada”—Lord jumpin’ dyin’, have ye got a death wish or what? We might be known fer sayin’ "sorry" when you step on our feet, but buddy, that ain’t ‘cause we’re soft. No sir! We’re tougher than a two-dollar steak at a roadside diner. And let’s not even get started on da hockey, b’y. Did ye not just see us wipe da ice wit’ yer team at da Championship? We don’t play hockey fer fun—we live it. Youse was skatin’ around like you was lost lookin’ fer a Tim’s drivethru.
And would ya ever smarten up and remember all da times we hauled yer arse outta trouble? Two World Wars—who was there early, drinkin’ tea an’ ready fer a scrap? Us. Afghanistan? Yep, we showed up with bells on. And every time yer forests catch fire, who’s sendin’ plane loads o’ folks to save yer bacon? That’s right. We even took yer celebrities—Ryan Reynolds? Canadian. Celine Dion? Ours. Justin Bieber... well, we’re still sorry fer dat one.
Now I knows ye get carried away sometimes, b’y, but here’s da thing—Canada ain’t somethin’ ye just take. We’re like a cold winter storm: nice to look at from afar, but ye get too close an’ you’ll be flat on yer arse wonderin’ what hit ya. We got geese that’ll chase ye to da ends o’ da earth, moose bigger than yer pickup trucks, and don’t even tempt da beavers—they’re little fury chainsaws on legs.
So here’s what ye do: Take a deep breath, pour yerself some real maple syrup (not dat fake corn goop ye got down there), and cool yer jets. We ain’t interested in a scrap, but if ye come sniffin’ ‘round with foolishness... well, let’s just say we got hockey sticks an’ we ain’t afraid to use ‘em.
With love, sass, and a wink that says “don’t test me,”
Kind as a nan’s hug, fierce as a nor’easter.
