"Canadians," she continues, "they're BIG. Burly, you know? I mean these guys were HUGE! WOODSMEN! Totally prepared for THE WINTER. You don't wanna fight Canadians in the Winter, man. They will jack you up. You wanna brawl with Canadians you gotta catch 'em in the Summer when they're lean and shit."
"YES, but what about the beer?" I ask.
"Oh my god THE BEER! They have something out there called La Fin du Monde."
"Fin-doo-wha?"
"La Fin du Monde. It's French," she explains.
"What's it mean?"
She smiles (I flinch). I can feel her warmth as she leans in close and whispers: "The End of The World..."
I nod, slowly, my eyes locked-on to the porcelain in her face. So shiny. At once I feel ashamed for the comments I had made earlier in the night concerning her (then unknown to me) fake teeth. I consider calling off the date a little early but something in her cleavage convinces me otherwise.