Now that every one was properly inebriated, it was truth time. No more pretenses. It was time to loosen the belt and let all that fat jiggle freely.
“Indian” Joe, not to be confused with “Native American” Joe, who was busying himself with slot machines, began his tirade. “Look, “Irish” Joe, just because I’m not as pale skinned as you; it doesn’t mean I ain’t got feelings. Sure, I can’t handle my whiskey as well as you can, and sure, I’m not comfortable around shillelaghs and potatoes like you, but I’m as human as you are, possibly more so.”
“British” Joe and “Canadian” Joe were ready to interject, until “Black” Joe intercepted. “Let the man talk. It’s his turn.”
There was no stopping “Indian” Joe. “Never have I spoken out loud about your mathematical ineptness, nor resorted to name calling like honky or stupid ass cracker. Oh, trust me, I could have after all your acts of buffoonery. Instead, I have always chosen the high road, but today, that damn road has done collapsed.”
“Irish” Joe lifted his head revealing a big grin. “I hope you’re done, cause I’ve got a rebuttal for you.”
If “Irish” Joe wasn’t so piss slobbering drunk, he might have played fair. He could have been man enough to bare his true sensitive poetic soul and apologize. But no, he extended his middle finger and aimed it squarely at “Indian” Joe.
Tensions mounted, sides were immediately drawn, as a civil war was about to erupt in the lodge. “Swiss” Joe was quick to show his neutral side as he vacated the premises. On the way out, he ran into “Russian” Joe, who was acting mighty suspicious, what with his tampering and whatnot.