to.the.handful.of.americans holding canadians.accountable for our.nonparticipation in iraq…

You know how it is: you’re in a bar with your buddies having a few rounds, maybe laughing it up over a game of cards, and flirting with the cute waitress who is already counting her tip. Things are good, and even though you might not completely trust that the pal to your left doesn’t have a few cards tucked up his sleeve, you know deep down that it’s just a friendly game, and the only thing at stake is who’s buying the next round.

You notice that the bloke next to you at the table is making a bit of a ruckuss — talking loudly, laughing, flashing his money around — and you nudge him with you foot, hinting at him to tone it down a bit. He doesn’t, though, and sure enough someone launches a chicken wing across the bar, knocking your loud friend square on the head, and dribbling hot-n-zesty barbeque sauce all down the side of his leather jacket.

Everyone feels bad, hands him some napkins to wipe up the mess, and tells him to calm down when he jumps up ready to fight. A few of you walk casually over to the other side of the room, figure out who threw the wing, and in response, puff up your chests and make some loud grunts to show’em who’s not be messing with.

Case settled. A little bit of a stain on your buddy’s jacket, but generally no harm, no foul.

But not in his head. He stews over it. Whispers quietly with the other chaps around the table, all the while making sidelong glances to the crew across the bar, huddled up in their own group, smirking and sending vague implications of threats through the crowded room. The game slows down to a weak pace, and no one is even sure who is playing, let alone buying the next round. The waitress has mysteriously disappeared.

Suddenly your pal stands up, blowing his chair out behind him, and rallies the table to a rumble. He’s steaming, and shouts at you and your friends to help him teach that chicken-tossing-prick a lesson. A few of you have been in fights before, and you shake your head telling him it’s not worth it. But you, you’re sitting right beside him now, and he’s pulled you up by the arm saying let’s go, let’s go. He’s vying for a fight, and you know there is no stopping him.

Time slows down. A few of you are standing there with seconds to decide: do you bounce the blokes across the room before they toss a little more than chicken and disrupt your card game again, or do you suck it up, tone it down, and maybe even invite them to play, offering to buy the next round.

No game. He rushes across the room, and before you realize what’s happening you’re watching your pal start wailing on the poor sap who may or may not have tossed the spicy appetizer. He’s shouting at you across the room. Get over here and help me, he raves. But watching him pummel the instigator, beyond recognition — taking a few blows, himself, in the process — you shake your head and realize that someone’s gotta stay clean to speak on his defence when the cops show up and drap you buddy’s ass off to prison for a night in the drunk tank.

The fight rages, and the rest of the bar backs off a few steps, trying not to get too involved.

Right now, you know your buddy is pissed at you. You know that a good pal like you thought you were might have blindly rushed in there, and — if nothing else — held off the the crowd. But deep down you know your buddy is over reacting. Deep down you realize that tomorrow you’ll all wake up, hope that this night was a bad dream, and pray that it doesn’t scar your friendship too much. Deep down, it’s just another rumble, and hell, you’ve never been much of a fighter anyways. Deep down, you’ll forgive him for it all — and hope he doesn’t get too hurt — but right now, you know it’s not really worth it. Hell, what if the guy has a knife?