Happy New Year, y'all!

Spain does presents January 6 (Three Kings' Day) so here is a little cultural fic with Newfoundland (from Rose, White, and Green Damnit!) and Canada. The countries have a disastrous gift exchange. No apologies for the clown.

DON'T OWN ANYTHING.

XX skywolf2001

XX SonoSvegliato

P.s Sono wrote all of this, I (sky) just took care of the accents I knew. Sono is an amazing beta-reader/co-writer, and deserves all credit for the hilarity that is to follow. Enjoy, and Happy (late) Holidays!

The personification of Newfoundland was having a just lovely time in Spain.

He wasn't real sure how the hell he'd ended up here of all places, surrounded by all the people he hated and then some.

"Ah, mon petit Terre-Neuve~~!" France crooned. Joseph scowled as the man stumbled over to the table, two glasses of champagne in hand. "Souris! It'z Christmaz." His breath smelled sickeningly sweet, and Newfoundland wrinkled his nose in disgust. The French nation put one of the glasses in front of the province, who promptly ignored it.

"Christmas ends December 25th', wh're it's den fah'llow'd by Boxing Day." He muttered.

"Christmas Day~~ But mon ami Espagne doez it different! January 6 iz the day for gifts. Ze Epiphany!"

Joseph knew, and really couldn't give two fucks about Spain's Three Kings' Day. What the hell did it matter to him? Christmas was at the end of the year, not at the start. Bastard dimwit European nations. He had already taken his tree down back home and had been looking forward to yet another year not being bothered by idiots.

It had been going great until he was jolted awake by the Canadian National Anthem blaring in his ears at one in the morning.

"Hey, Joseph," Canada had whispered. "Are you awake?"

"Nah," he had mumbled. "This is Skipper. It's one in da thandarin' goddamn mornin' b'y, whaddya wah'nt?"

"Spain just invited me to Three Kings' Day at his house."

"So?"

"I was wondering if you would like to join me."

"Are ye stunned!? If't ya t'inks I wanna-"

"Come on," Canada pleaded. "At least say hello. A lot of these countries explored you."

"Tha' came out righ't noice. Me son, I tells ya: No, dammit." If a country wasn't familiar with the Newfoundland dialect, one would think he was actually praising Canada's impeccable choice of words. In fact, it was standard to say the opposite of what you mean, with the most sarcasm one can stick in.

"You can bring Skipper and everything!" the other personnification added quickly. "I'll even pay! Spain invited everybody. I can get America to bring Minnesota if you want."

"Min'sota! Dah' buck-toot'ed prick dah' always complains 'bout da cold?"

"He likes hockey," Canada whispered.

"And dah' makes all da diff'rence, don't it? Ah me nerves..."

"What about hunting? You both like hunting."

"G'wan! Dat' imposter couldn't shew't a moose if it wow're a big red tahr'get an' stood right in his face. Las' time he was' some contrary! G'night, Matt."

"But Spain-"

"Da Basque can be rimm'd in his own time b'y, he don' mean squat tah me."

"The Nordics-"

"If ya brings dah up again, I'll tell America his name's Portah'guese."

"France-"

"France? Get on wit' ya b'y, I'll tip me cap tah 'im in hell."

"England, then?" Canada tried tentatively.

"I don' wan' food poisonin'. R'ember da las' time ye brought 'im here? Ya knows ye'rself, ye fed Skip his 'scaw'nes' and dah poor bugger-"

"I know, I told you I was sorry. I paid the vet bill and replaced your carpet. Please, Joseph. There's a gift exchange."

"Whadda 'bout it?"

He heard Canada's sigh as static. "Just please come with me. I already promised Alfred that I'd go, but this really can't turn out well. I need backup."

So Joseph supposed that he did know the reason why Skipper was hacking underneath his feet. He rubbed the dog's ears. "I tol' ya not tah eat da Brit's Christmas present." He got a whine in return.

A beer clanked on the table, and he looked up to see a flustered-looking Canada.

"Here," the nation said, sliding onto the seat beside him. "Germany brought it." He had a glass of wine in his hand, and he swirled it absentmindedly, eyes closed. Newfoundland cocked an eyebrow, and took the bottle in his hand.

"Well?" Joe grunted after a while.

Canada opened his eyes. "Well, what?"

"Ye don' look likes ye'r 'aving a time." The province said simply, sipping his drink.

The nation's nose twitched. "I'm surprised America remembered my phone number to call me. I'm surprised he even remembered me."

"Yes b'y, must be da Christmas magic." Newfoundland snorted.

"It's like the meetings all over again," Canada sighed, shoulders slumping. "I'm invisible. Not to mention all this noise. Even if they cared enough to just notice me, they wouldn't hear a thing."

It was true. There was so much sound that Skipper whined by Newfoundland's feet and pawed his ears. He thought there might be a song booming against the walls, but it was hard to tell amongst the overwhelming buzz of glasses clinking, nations shouting, and feet running. It was enough to make Joe wish he had brought some aspirin with him. He wanted to ask if the nation wanted to go back to their hotel, but asked what he'd brought for exchange instead.

"A bottle of real maple syrup and some Poutine," was the answer.

The province gave Canada a scowl. "G'wan b'y, get on wit' ya!"

"Gifts are in the twenty dollar range; there's bound to be some gag gifts. What did you bring?"

Joseph looked away and mumbled, "Postcards and sausies from Long Dick's Sausage Emporium."

Canada snorted. "I hope France enjoys that from the province with a town named 'Dildo'. I thought you were bringing Carnation milk."

"'Couldn't," Joseph explained. "They'r after put'ing a limit ah forty eight per household."

Canada gave him a sideways look. "That was a joke, right?"

"Ye got me drove, ya knows ye'rself. I'm after put'ing some vodky in, too."

"Russia will like that. What kind?"

"Iceberg."

Canada blinked at him, and then shook his head with a snort. "And you thought your gift was much better than mine?"

"I was in ah right frenzy get'ing ou'tha door!"

Canada was prevented from retorting by a sudden shout, carving through the sound of intoxicated nations partying.

"Callad! Todos callad!" Spain called. He wobbled, arm slung over a stumbling South Italy. "Oye! Oye, putas!" He shook an empty glass and almost keeled forward. "Get your numbers! Pick your numbers!"

He immediately disappeared in a swarming mass of nations, ranging from tipsy to completely, rip-roaring drunk.

Canada let out a huff and slid off his seat. "I'll get ours."

Newfoundland couldn't help but give him a sympathetic pat on the back as the nation dragged his feet and dove into the mass. He was just about to plan Canada's funeral, with an orbituary stating he died in vain bravery, when the personification tumbled out hair a mess and jacket crumpled.

"There," he gasped, setting a small folded paper in front of Joseph and downing the rest of his wine, grabbing Joe's unfinished beer thereafter and downing that as well.

Newfoundland unfolded the paper. "Wha'sa good number?"

"Bigger ones, I think. So you can steal."

"By all t'ings good an'sacred, I's landed a four."

"At least it's not one." Canada unfolded his, and then smiled.

"Ye grinnin' chucklehead, waddya get somet'ing be'ter, did't ye?"

"Last," the nation answered. "I can steal whatever I want."

"Callad, gente de las cabras!" Spain shouted. Romano was now half-draped on him, whining in Italian and smashing his paper into Spain's cheek. "Las reglas! You pick a gift -" his arm swung wildly to the pile of bags and boxes in the back of the room - "or you can steal from somebody else. If you're stolen from, you get another turn. Who's Numero Uno?"

"Number One!" America screeched. "Number One!"

"Yaaayyy!" Italy cried. "I win!"

"Nein," they could hear Germany grumble. "Italy, you don't vant to be first."

But Italy went on to go shifting the gifts before holding a large, sloppily wrapped box. "I like the square!"

"Open it up, idiota," Romano grumbled into Spain's shoulder.

Italy plopped down on the floor next to Germany's feet and ripped it open with a gasp. "It's pasta! I brought pasta!"

Germany rubbed his nose. "You picked your own prezent?"

Italy shoved the box up so everyone could see the red, tomatoey mess inside. "No one steal, please!"

"I don't think anyone would want to steal that, Italy," Newfoundland heard Canada mumble.

Spain clapped his hands together. "I forgot, you puede tomar su propio regalo -"

Prussia cupped his hands around his mouth. "Not efferybody sbeaks Spanish, Toni!"

Spain smiled. "What?"

"Speak English!" Came the chorused reply of multiple nations.

"Was I not? Lo siento, yo les dije -"

"INGLESE!" Romano growled.

"There aren't any rules on what present you pick!" the Spanish personification finally managed. "It can be your own!"

Newfoundland eyed the red bag he'd brought that sat showily up on a stool. Fine by him. He liked a bit of vodka brewed from the insides of icebergs….and homegrown potatoes, of course.

"Number Two!" America yelled. "Number T- oh, wait, that's me."

From where Norway had a firm grip on his tie, Denmark laughed.

"Ha! America's gøt a bad nuuuummber!" He sang.

America stomped his foot. "I DID NOT! Two's a great number! I wanted the number two! First is the worst, second is the best -"

"Just go already you bloody yank!" England snapped from where he sat, arms crossed.

America immediately picked up the biggest present, struggling to hold it above his head. "It's heavy!"

"Then put it down and open it," Canada muttered.

America returned to his spot on the couch and began throwing wrapping paper every which way. There was the satisfying crack of an opened box, and America's face fell.

"Well, what is it? Tienes nos mostrarlo - show it to everyone."

America's face crumpled further.

"Oh, come on," Canada grumbled, leaning forward in an effort to see.

America lifted the box out with shaking hands and then displayed it for all to see, mouth set in a wobbling frown.

England blinked at it. "Vegemite?"

"Industrial box!" Australia called, gesturing to it with his beer. "Fifty jars. Lucky mate, I was goin' to pick it myself."

"You can steal it," America suggested hopefully.

"Nah, you have it. The last time I visited you didn't have a single jar in your pantry. You're missin' too many of the vital food groups. You'll have to move your Nutella shelf to fit the real good stuff."

America's eye twitched and he called a little more dejectedly, "Number Three…"

Newfoundland shifted in his seat. Why were nations so goddamn slow? He had to wait one more turn, and then he would be safe. He'd get his own gift and that'd be it.

"Number Three," Iceland muttered, stalking up with a frown. "Of course."

"Steal the Vegemite!" America yelled, shaking the box. The jars clanked against each other.

But Iceland went climbing through the presents, avoiding some while inspecting others. It was enough to make Newfoundland want to yell. He drummed his fingers against the table instead until Canada made him stop.

"Just pick already, Ice!" Denmark groaned, attempting to untie Norway's knot around his chair. Norway sat boredly at his side.

"Icey's picky about gifts. Isn't that right, Suu-san?" Finland explained, looking up at the Swedish personification behind him. Sweden only grunted a reply, staring at Finland. The nation was dressed head-to-toe in his red Santa suit, and Sweden couldn't stop staring at the little bell attached to the tip of the hat. Newfoundland found it highly disturbing.

Iceland was staring closely at bags now, studying the tissue paper as if they were fortunes.

"Pick, Iceland!"

"Fine, fine," the nation grumbled, sweeping the fateful Red Bag off its perch and collapsing back into his seat.

Newfoundland scowled and banged his fist on the table.

"You can always steal," Canada said.

"Get'on wit' ya. Sna'chin' me own gift? I ain't dah crooked b'y." That was that, he would have to brave the holiday minefield.

Iceland slid the bottle of vodka from its package, and his eyes lit up. "Picking presents is an art I have managed to perfect."

Norway immediately snatched it from him with a frown. "You're too young."

"I was settled in 874!"

"Your republic wasn't founded until 1944."

"That's not fair -"

"Open up the rest."

Iceland obeyed grudgingly, pulling out the postcards and sausage.

"Wow," Denmark whistled. "Your present-picking skills really are great!"

"Shut up!"

"Where are the postcards from?" Finland asked, peering at them. "Oh! There's a tiny pony in a sweater! We'll have to get some for our house."

Canada raised an eyebrow at Newfoundland, who colored. "Shetland pony?" he asked.

"They're tiny," Joseph stressed.

Iceland flipped the back of a postcard, revealing the picture of a small boat tugging a gigantic glacier. "Newfoundland."

"New Finland?" America asked. "What's New Finland?"

"Newfoundland," Joseph snarled. "I'm a province in Canada." He glared at the USA, then added, "Ye stunned arse."

America blinked at Joseph, then at Matthew as if just noticing him for the first time. "Oh! Hey, Mattie. I didn't know you came."

Matthew cracked open a can of beer as aggressively as he could. Which is to say: it popped cutely, little bubbles hissing in a futile, nature-defying way. Newfoundland wondered, not for the first time, how Canada could do such a thing.

"You brought the Newfie."

Joseph's fingers curled into a fist. Someone else using that term? Sure. But not him. Anyone but him.

"America," Canada said softly, looking from his brother to the seething province, "Not everybody in Newfoundland likes to be called a Newfie."

"What am I supposed to call 'im then!? The person from New Found Land?"

"I AM fuckin' Newfoundland ye-"

"Number Four!" America called instead.

Joseph snatched the first gift he saw and slammed it on the table so hard it shook. The poor table, it seemed, had to take the hit for one, particularly, irritating country. What a lucky nation. Around the room, the other countries noted how the poor abused piece of furniture trembled under such violence… and in their drunken states, mutually agreed never to piss off this one specific Canadian province. All except those who knew Joe, of course (a.k.a. Canada, and a few others who would rile him up for a laugh).

"Just open it up and be finished," Canada whispered. He was half off his seat. "I'll get you a beer."

"I don' wan' no beer," he hissed back. "I wan' some Screech." He hoped one of the three kings brought Jesus some. He'd need it a lot more than some fancy frankincense.

He didn't get Screech, but he did end up with an eighteen piece set of mixing bowls and measuring spoons…. Eh, could have been worse.

Austria's turn arrived, the nation ending up with a bottle of G.H. Mumm Champagne (the good stuff) and French perfume. Prussia laughed so hard Hungary appeared behind him with a frying pan, looking at Germany for confirmation. The latter nation shook his head and waved her off.

"Ha!" Prussia shouted. "The perfect gift for Sissy!"

Austria pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Some people have no sense of culture," he sniffed. "You, however, have neither sense nor the simple appreciation."

"Number Six!"

"Number Seven!"

"Number Eight!"

Hungary finally got up, but instead of heading for the present pile stood in front of Austria with a playful smile on her lips.

"Give it up, Austria."

"You dare steal from me?"

"Oh, please. What are you going to do with perfume meant for a lady?"

Austria frowned. "It's not ladylike to steal."

"A real man with class would give a lady what she wants." She gestured with a waggling of her fingers. "Come on, Roderich."

Austria grudgingly handed over the bag. "Am I not allowed to steal back?"

"Nooo~" Spain answered, giving an exaggerated shake of his head. Romano was grabbing on to his hair. "Pick another."

Austria did, ending up with an ancient-looking platter in the shape of Prussia. There was an old coin inside of it. Austria stared at it incredibly, and then promptly shoved it in the giver's face.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Meaning of vhat? That's an old coin, Sissy. I got it from Ebay."

"Got it from Ebay - is this a joke?"

"Uh, nein. I made that plate myself, centuries ago. It's an antique. You love antiques. You can put your girly little cupcakes on it."

Austria stood up. "I demand a repick."

"Lo sientooooo~ No repicks! Numero Nueve!"

"That's me!" cried a high voice.

"Bloody hell - Sealand, I allowed you to come but I did not give you permission to participate in the exchange -" England started.

The micronation interrupted. "You never said no!" He picked up a large wrapped box and nearly dropped it. He ended up dragging it back over to a corner, where Wy sat complaining and Seborga had been sleeping since dessert. He unwrapped it, and his face twisted in confusion.

"What's moonshine?"

Canada put a hand over his mouth and closed his eyes. Oh, snowflake. Newfoundland's cheek twitched.

"Is this your gift?" Sealand asked, pointing at England with an accusing finger. "Is this more of your magicky stuff?"

"It is not!"

"That's my gift," America proudly announced. "Kentucky made it. It's apple pie, chocolate cake, and lemonade flavored - the apple pie, of course, is the best."

"But what is it?" England sighed.

"Moonshine. I thought that was clear."

"What is moonshine?"

"What's moonshine - what's moonshine - whattya mean, 'what's moonshine'," America spluttered, arms waving in the air. "You loved moonshine!" He then pointed a finger at the british nation, "You don't remember that time I took you to the Bluegrass Festival?"

England colored. "I regret to inform you that I do not, in fact, recall that time."

"Well, probably not. You took two sips outta the jar and went crazy. You challenged me to a race, fell on a rock, and then I missed Seldom Scene because I had to drive you to the hospital to get stitches."

England muttered something unintelligible and turned his head away. "Fancy you making drinks into desserts," he said a little louder.

"Explain to everybody what moonshine is!" Austria snapped.

America blinked. "Wait. So moonshine isn't an international thing? England, dude, I used to hide this in my boots back in colonial times. It's like, I dunno - 50? 75? 90% alcohol?"

Sealand held a jar high above his head. "Yeah!"

"You will absolutely not drink even a single drop of that monstrosity -"

"Number Ten!" America shouted.

"Me!" Prussia exclaimed, jumping up and grabbing the moonshine out of Sealand's hands. "New Year's is going to be great this year, West!"

Germany closed his eyes with a long sigh, which he had been doing repeatedly ever since Italy started eating from his pasta box.

Sealand scrambled to his feet and jabbed a finger at the Prussian personification. "You big bully! That was mine!"

"It's not now," Wy remarked coolly, observing the scene while redoing her pigtails.

So Sealand had to pick again. His face colored and he shoved the object back into the small bag.

"You have to show it," England ordered.

The micronation shook his head fervently.

"Come now. You wanted to participate."

He drew a pack of three ten dollar Ebay gift cards. The room erupted in laughter.

When Germany's number was called, the stony nation stole Austria's platter with a quick apology. He threw the coin at his brother, which hit him in the side of his head with a loud thump.

Austria stole back his champagne and perfume from Hungary, rules or no rules.

Canada snorted and eyed the rest of his beer. "Now I'm having a little better of a time, eh. What about you?"

"Half-decent," Newfoundland answered. He reached down to rub Skipper's ears but found that the dog had disappeared. He peered around the room. Where'd the little bugger go?

He was interrupted from his wondering by an Austrian wail of anger and looked over to see that Poland had totally, like, stolen his lady scent bottle (and champagne). Austria ended up with a recipe book.

Lithuania stole the moonshine from Prussia, a smug expression of victory on his face. From his spot at the table Newfoundland thought he heard a tight whisper of "Fuck you Teutonic Knights", but he couldn't be completely sure. Not with so many drunk nations in one room. So Prussia was left pouting like a child.

Hungary gestured to Newfoundland. "Steal the Tupperware," she suggested to Prussia. Newfoundland threw an arm around the box lazily. Yeh, steal from me b'y, see wha' happens.

Prussia had let out a bark of laughter. "Me? Like Tupperware?"

"You used to go to Tupperware parties, don't deny it -"

Prussia waved the notion of the Awesome him liking something so girlish as Tupperware, and stole from Iceland instead. Newfoundland noticed him eyeing the vodka with a certain amount of satisfaction and looked over at Canada smugly.

And then goddamn France came over and gestured to him, it was a clear enough message: Give up the mixing bowls.

"No," Newfoundland growled, eyes narrowing.

Canada nudged him. "Joseph."

"Come on, petit, let your ami make you the bezt croissants for the breakfazt~"

Before he could shoot a sharp retort, Canada swiped the box from him and handed it over to the other nation.

"Wha' da hell, b'y! Them was mine!"

"And now they're France's, eh."

Newfoundland huffed and got up, immediately conscious that he was the center of attention. He decided that the lightest bag would be the safest. Gift cards, probably.

He sat and picked through the tissue-paper filled gift bag.

Oh for dah mudder ah god.

Heat flared up in his cheeks and he shoved the bag under his seat.

"No, no~" Spain crooned. In that moment, Newfoundland had never hated the Basques so much as he did now. He had hated them ever since they sailed around his shores in their little fishing boats, and now it was very apparent why. "Nos muestrelo. Show it to us."

Canada leaned over for a peak and flushed red in turn. "Oh my Maple leaf." He gasped, eyes wide.

Joe swallowed. Fucking shit. This was why he didn't do these types of things. He should have thrown his phone in the harbor the moment O Canada's opening started ringing.

But he hadn't. And he regretted it.

He dumped the hot-pink-trimmed-in-black, MALE lingerie onto his lap.

France whistled so loud Joseph thought his eardrums would pop. The blood pounding in his temples certainly did nothing to cover up the whooping catcalls and laughter from the nations around him.

Lucky for him, the dainty objects were swiped almost immediately from his possession.

"These are for Big Brother," A Creepy Ass Doll hissed. Her eyes were alight in a mad gleam, she wore a large bow… It was…

Belarus.

"Take 'em," he said, half in reply and half in honest relief.

"Aw," he heard Prussia mumble in disappointment. He considered how angry Canada would be with him if he socked the 2nd german personification in the jaw.

Canada reached up and grabbed hold of his shirt, as if sensing his intent.

Spain wiped the tears from his eyes. "Oh, Dios mio. Romano estaba yendo conseguirlas."

"Ciò che era che bastardo?"

Newfoundland stormed back up to the dwindling pile and came back with a large box. He unwrapped it and sighed.

Car wash solution.

It went more smooth from there. No one stole from him again, and things only went back to getting a little more exciting at England's turn, when he opened up a box and made a fit.

"What on earth is the meaning of this?" he spat, drawing out a medium-sized clown. Canada put his hands over his face, and Newfoundland smirked. England's hand brushed a button, and the words "Bloody hell!" bounced from the walls as its arms and legs started swinging and its head started twisting in what could only be a satanic summoning ritual. But there was also singing, so maybe it was dancing.

America laughed. "Aw, man, Iggy, you've got the Clown Curse."

"Is this your gift?"

"I brought the moonshine."

"Who brought this hellish thing, then? What is it?"

"A clown, duh. You have to keep it for a whole year and then bring it back at the next gift exchange."

England cast the clown away with a scowl. The sender of the gift never got identified that night.

There was also the glorious sound of France's wail.

"Mon portefeuille!" he cried. He sank to his knees and cradled the expensive, designer leather remains of his wallet. "There iz teeth marks! Who brought a dog?"

"G' job, Skip," Newfoundland mumbled under his breath, though the giant black dog still had not returned. He noticed Canada giving him a raised eyebrow, but didn't meet his eyes.

It was another half hour before the question "Who's last?" was rallied off from nation to nation. Only a single gift lay in the pile now, and the floor was littered with tissue paper and wrapping paper and opened boxes and one chewed up French designer wallet.

Newfoundland nudged Canada with his elbow. "Get on wit' it, b'y."

Matthew raised his head. "I'm last."

"Vho iz last?

"Who's last?"

"I thought I heard something~aru."

"Nah, that was just the A/C mate."

"I'M LAST," Canada repeated. He considered his options: steal someone else's gift or go after the last unopened one. Which was safer? Both came with risks...

But none of the other gifts had really caught his eye…

Before he knew it, his fingers looped around the last bag. It was heavy. He weighed in his hand a bit. Heavy like wine? Heavy like a blanket? Heavy like what? Was it too late to put it back down? Yes, America was freaking out about the "ghost gift". And Newfoundland was staring at him.

He controlled his trembling hands and grabbed the obscured object, letting the bag drop to his feet.

The room stilled.

He felt his heartbeat in his chest. He peeled back the wrapping paper and -

-smiled.

America demanded a trade. England cried inequality. Prussia kept asking "Vhat? Vhat in awesomeness iz going on?" and Austria turned his head with a snort. Denmark choked against his tie like a dog yanking on its leash. Japan decided that it would be best if he kept quiet about who had brought the gift.

Nintendo.

Entertainment.

System.

NES CLASSIC EDITION was spelled out in beautiful, bold letters. "30 CLASSIC NES GAMES" popped out to Canada like a giant maple leaf shaped, red and gold firework on the 1st of July.

Newfoundland felt a strange mixture of Canadian patriotism and jealousy. Canada held the box over his head and let out a mighty victory call. Joseph swore he heard the majestic hissing of a Canadian goose and the bark of a beaver in the distance.

Canada sat the NES down on the table like a shining trophy. "Now I'm fantastic."

"Get on wit'ya. Ye got noticed."

"What a night," the nation sighed over the drunken Spanish shout of "LET'S GO TO THE PARADE, BITCHES!"

"Is we stayin' fer dah?"

"The parade? Not if you don't want to."

A wave of relief washed over him. Surrounded by drunken nations, it would be hard to restrain himself from punching out at least somebody's lights.

He whistled for Skipper.

He whistled again.

And a third time.

He was about to get up and go look for the bugger when there was a happy bark and his dog raced to meet him, colorful bows stuck on him from head to tail and a piece of wrapping paper hanging from his jaws.

Canada laughed and gave the Skipper-christmasaurus a quick pat on the rump.

Newfoundland rubbed his face before grabbing a much needed beer to go.

"Oh, Dios mio. Romano estaba yendo conseguirlas." - "Oh, my god. Romano was going to get those." (Spanish).

"Ciò che era che bastardo?" - "What was that, bastard?" (Crappy Italian I know I know I'm working on it.)