Wedding Etiquette: Don’t tell the bride your invitation never came – just assume she already knows and turn up anyway.

Restaurant Etiquette:  USE THE SILVERWARE – DON’T STASH IT and strive to give the impression that French/Italian/Chinese/ whatever the cuisine speciality is/ is actually your first language (so never, I repeat, NEVER act surprised when your ordered dish arrives)
Table Etiquette:  As above, except for the language bit. It should be noted, however, that  “At-home-table Etiquette” allows for relaxing the silverware principle whenever the cricket’s on telly.

Dating Etiquette: “Yes” means “Yes”, “No” means “No” and “Maybe” means “Possibly, but really, well…. No.”
(“I’ll call you” and “Let me think about it” both mean “HELL, NO!”)

Teenage Etiquette:  Whatever Thorpie does because…Like, you know, it’s coz it’s really sick and stuff but don’t say anything coz that’d be really gay. Got me?

Ah, etiquette. Unpretentious, yet so powerful. One can sense when Etiquette enters the room. Heads turn, faces smile and all seems right with the world.
Extend that hand, embrace that small talk, master the subtle topic change and breathe again.

Elliot ran along the muddy shoreline with his lanky body bouncing up and down as he pulled his feet from the mud. It was his first time in Italy and his excitement had gotten the best of him. The suction on his feet slowed him down, but he could still outrun Pam, who held his clothes up as she chased after him. He ran along the thin mud flat bordering a sparse grove of weeds that shot ten feet up from the water’s edge. The stink of nitrogen seeped from the mud and hung in the air. This was no place to sunbathe.

“Elliot, please stop,” Pam yelled. “Put your clothes on.” 

Exasperation gripped her face as her chest heaved. She could only take two or three steps before stopping to catch her breath. Her round figure sank too deeply into the mud to get anywhere near him.

Elliot ignored her. His bony arms flailed about like a toddler’s as he ran.

Thirty college students stood back and watched their colleague run naked through the mud while his teacher plodded after him. They were supposed to get a little history of the largest lake in Umbria, but this was the highlight of their field trip.

Pam’s frustration grew worse because Ivy, the other professor there, had abandoned the group with another student just minutes before. She was as flighty in temperament as some of her dance students. They went up toward the road and crossed out of sight. A few students giggled about it because a rumor had spread that they went to smoke pot.

I watched from the far corner of the beach. An old woman who lived in one of the houses on the street walked down the dirt path behind me.

“Why is he nude?” she asked in Italian.

I laughed. She was near seventy and thin, but she looked like a weathered peasant who had spent a life working in the fields.

“He’s crazy.”

“Where is he from?”

“The United States,” I said.

“Hmm,” she said, staring at the naked man frolicking in the mud. “Maybe he should be brought to a hospital.”

I laughed again.

Elliot then turned around and started running toward Pam. He had moved onto firmer ground so he picked up speed. His parts flapped about like a rag in the wind as he barreled toward her. A collective oooh came from the students. Pam scrambled out of the way and let him pass without a challenge, leaving his clothes behind. She didn’t get hazard pay.

Elliot whizzed passed her and came toward me and the old woman, his face beaming with delight. He skidded to a stop within 10 feet of us and turned back toward his colleagues with his arms raised victoriously above his head. “Yeah!” he screamed. He took in a few deep breaths and then ran back toward Pam, this time veering back into the mud.

After 4 or 5 steps, Elliot’s right foot scraped the thick muck and he fell face forward, slapping the wet surface with full-body contact. Another oooh came from the crowd, this one deeper in tone. He lay outstretched and motionless for a few seconds, as if expecting to sink. When he tried to get up, his arms sunk to his elbows and his knees submerged. He looked like a trapped animal. He dug his feet in to gain his balance and pushed his rear-end up first. He was bent so far over that his hair lay in the mud and his hind quarters and all of its component parts were in full view for me and the old woman to see.

“Oh Dio!” she said and covered her mouth.

It was a snapshot in horror. The old woman might have seen American tourism written all over that image. I laughed like hell.

Elliot then pulled his arms out of the mud and inched his way back to firmer ground where he moped back toward Pam and his stunned classmates, his limbs coated in black tar, gray water streaming down his back from his stringy hair and everyone wondering what had possessed him to take off his clothes and make a total mess of himself in front of a group of people.

What about the jerk drain? With every Air Canada plane load of brains departing Canadian shores, there are a gaggle of  jerks amongst them.   In a drunken slur they demand, “Get me another double honey!,” on their flights to London, Tokyo, and Los Angeles. Good riddance I say! And I ask you, does Stats Canada keeps statistics on how many jerks are leaving Canada and annoying those poor helpless foreign folks abroad? Are those stats in English and French?  Is the Canadian taxpayer saving money due to the flow of jerks abroad? Are any other countries exerting international pressure on Canada to stem the repugnant tide of jerks entering their nations?  I have met many jerks while abroad, and I am  proud to say that many have hailed from the Great White North.  It may be the cold, harsh winters, or the rain of the coast, but we should be happy in knowing that we produce a lot of jerks– for export.

I in fact live abroad.  Just ask my poor suffering wife of 9 years. “He’s a jerk!” states Ikumi.

There you have it. I’ve been in Japan for over eleven years and I still butcher their language.

My poor neighbours. I think some of them avoid me in embarassment–FOR ME.

I always say Japanese is such a tough language to learn, but even my five year old can speak it better than I. Guilty as charged, I’m a jerk.

Take my brother–he’s a lawyer.  I could end it right there now couldn’t I? Have you heard any good jokes lately?

… He’s been out of Canada for years now, ridding the country of a thoroughly annoying person.

This is the same guy who walks onto movie sets uninvited and gets paid to be an extra in the cocktail party

shot. Sure he’s interesting, but let’s face it mom, dad, The Law Society; he’s a jerk.  I do love him though, oh there I go again, it’s going all over my shoes!  Wait…I’ll get a tissue. Okay I’m back. Where was I? Oh yah…

Take the guy at the Thai beach hut resort, you know the really cheap ones.  At these resorts they charge next to nothing for the hut, but hope you will eat and drink in their restaurant as that’s how they make their money.  Well, this jerk wasn’t eating in the restaurant, and would only set foot in it to steal the sugars and creamers off the tables, then sneak back miserly to his hut to make his instant soup and coffee. He also stole the coconuts, another real no-no at beach resorts in general. This guy was the talk of the resort.

My brother, you remember him right? He asked discriminatingly, “What part of America is that guy from?”

“Vancouver,” was the reply. Yep, another one of Canada’s finest.

No don’t knock the jerk drain.  The UN has proclaimed Canada  the most liveable nation on the planet for a few years now.  I think it may be because we are relatively jerk free as compared to say America.

The other thing is,  when Canadian Jerks Abroad, (The CJA) act like jerks in London or Paris, no one thinks we’re Canadians! We can’t even tarnish Canada’s image correctly! “Go back to America!” is what we frequently hear.  I never correct them!