(SCENE: My parents’ basement. My brother JEFF and I are watching rugby.)
ME: The Aussies are getting their asses kicked here.
JEFF: Serves them right for getting distracted by soccer and cricket.
ME: Didn’t they lose the Ashes this year?
JEFF: Serves them right for getting distracted by soccer.
ME: What are you going to say if they don’t win the World Cup?
JEFF: Serves them right for getting distracted by rugby.
ME: Well, you’re consistent.
DAD: Are you watching the rugby?
JEFF: It’s either that or some really weird football.
ME: We’re watching the rugby.
JEFF: You might want to leave so it doesn’t get ruined for you.
DAD: I already saw it.
ME: Then why are you recording it?
DAD: I’m recording it?
JEFF: That’s what the little blinking light on the PVR says.
DAD: Well, I got up early and watched it live.
ME: So you already watched the English bashing in the Australians?
DAD: (mysteriously) Wait a while.
JEFF: Well, there’s no point in watching this now. Switch it to football.
DAD: What do you mean?
JEFF: You just said “wait a while” in this supposed-to-be-mysterious voice. Thanks for telling us as obviously as possible that Australia wins.
DAD: I didn’t say they won. I said to keep watching.
JEFF: Chris, back me up on this. What do you think the odds are that Australia wins, given Dad’s mystery-voice?
ME: I would say they’re very good, Jeff.
JEFF: Of course you would. That’s because we’re not stupid.
DAD: Well, you never know. Oh, look at Ashley-Cooper. The English just can’t stop him.
JEFF: You are possibly the least convincing liar ever.
ME: It’s impressive to consider the English losing after they’ve spent the first half basically mauling Australia. I mean, look at the English players. They don’t look like professional athletes. They look like really angry plumbers.
JEFF: I think all rugby players look like really angry plumbers. This is the only sport where professional athletes can have beer guts.
ME: Maybe the English lose because somebody tells them that the magic feathers they were given aren’t in fact magic, and it was them all along, and they lose faith in themselves.
JEFF: “Yes, Tom, we’re getting word that the English players have discovered that these are in fact just plain old pigeon feathers, and not feathers from the magical flying dress of Queen Elizabeth. Look at that fullback there, crying as he clutches his useless, non-magical feather.”
ME: “As I recall, Sid, something like this happened at Wallybelly in 1967, when the All Blacks beat Wales eleventy billion to three. Do you remember if that was something like this?”
JEFF: “Well, Tom, that was a bit different. That was a case where the players thought their jerseys had been personally blessed by Jesus Christ, but it turned out to just be a sarcastic hippie.”
DAD: (having ignored all of this as he watches the rugby) You know, the Springboks beat England a little while back and set a record, they beat them so bad? That’s the magic of the fall international tour, you know. The southern hemisphere comes up north and kicks the asses of everyone up here, and people pay to see it happen.
ME: You’re going to New Zealand in 2011, right?
DAD: Planning to.
ME: Yeah, but if Canada qualifies, who do you cheer for?
DAD: I’d cheer for both South Africa and Canada, obviously.
ME: But what if they’re in the same pool?
JEFF: You really don’t have to ask that.
(shared look that says “South Africa, duh”)