Heh. My new found friends (they rescued me off the highway when my motorcycle broke down) decided to test the stereotype, and I lived up to the Yank rep: puked my guts out on Molson Canadian the first time (mind you, I was 19, underage in the US, and had only had stolen beers from Dad before). I soon found my beer-legs though, after a week or so. Not that I had much beer money - I got odd jobs under the table for that year+ . About once a month one of the fellas (of about 12 of them) would score a good paycheck and treat the others to a couple of cases. I did so once, after getting a hefty check from two weeks cutting survey lines (light lumberjacking) up around Sudbury.
Good times. *sigh*
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