‐ You wanna know what? I'm gettin' a little bit sick of this set up.
‐ When a friend asks for help, you helps 'em, good buddies.
‐ Yeah, but we've got people calling
from a half dozen townships there, Squirrelly D.
‐ Yeah, like, we don't even know half of these nut sacks.
‐ You know, if I know you, Wayne,
and I am 100% sure I would like to get to know you better,
you'd rather be at home doing some toe curlin'
with your little Anne Parillaud.
‐ Butt‐fuckin' bucket‐load of things I'd rather be doin', good buddy.
‐ Game time. ‐ Ooh!
Car! [giggles]
'Cause that's wh‐‐ when they play hockey...
Fine, game on.
♪ rock music playing ♪
Okay, let's Crack an Ag. Three, two, [mouths] one.
‐ Yeah, well, welcome to Crack an Ag.
And bet you can't, so...
‐ McMurray's on the line.
‐ Fuck sakes.
‐ He says it's an emergency.
‐ So much for that blacklist. Wait, am I still on that?
DARYL: Man, McMurray's a piece of shit.
‐ Should I let him through?
‐ We kinda have to now, good buddies. ‐ Okay.
‐ He says that he's here at the studio, but the doors are locked.
‐ Oh! I can just go let him in myself. Oh.
I'm coming, blacklist buddy!
‐ Buck futter.
‐ Eh, when a friend asks you for help...
‐ Get off his dick, Dan.
[panting]
‐ Wayne. ‐ McMurray, how are you now?
‐ Good and you. Not so bad. Good and you. And I knew that you were.
‐ Pitter‐patter. ‐ [panting]
‐ I have some life‐altering news for youse.
‐ Well, we've got about a half dozen townships watching,
so, hope it's not too personal.
‐ Shh. I, McMurray,
have a 5.15 inch penis.
‐ What? ‐ I, McMurray, have a 5, point‐‐
‐ We, we heard you.
‐ Why is this news that you are telling us?
‐ Because, Big Hoss, I've spent my entire life
thinking that I had a 4.15 inch penis.
‐ So, you're essentially fuckin' with a Snickers bar.
‐ Well, girth is the question mark. What changed?
Did I say that?
‐ I was listening to Howard Stern this morning and‐‐
‐ See, that's another thing I miss doing when we're here all the time, fuck.
‐ Hit 'em with the Hein!
‐ Hit 'em with the Hein. And I learnt
that I have been measuring my penis incorrectly
since the time I first measured it as an adolescent.
‐ How did you fuck that up?
‐ I'm glad you asked, Katy. ‐ Ugh.
‐ I measure my penis every year, once a year on Boxing Day.
‐ Well, how come it's on Boxing Day?
‐ Oh, because that's when Mrs. McMurray's family leaves
after a week‐long stay for the holidays,
giving us a chance to...
Exchange gifts.
‐ Holy fuck.
‐ Now, I pray to the good Lord Jesus above
every year at Christmas Eve at midnight mass,
"Please, Lord, let me wake up,
"let this year be the year
that I give Mrs. McMurray a little something extra."
‐ Fuckin' Catholics.
‐ And yet, every year on Boxing Day,
I pull the tape out and... 4.15 inches.
‐ So, you're essentially fuckin' with a three‐quarter Rolo.
‐ Girth is still the question mark.
Glen, you have no one to blame but yourself now.
‐ I've been measuring my penis wrong! My entire life!
‐ How did you manage to fluff that up?
‐ As Mrs. McMurray goes and gets her Christmas lingerie on,
I lie myself in bed and I get myself good and hard.
Not a little hard. Good and hard.
‐ So, fully torqued, then?
‐ Full bars. ‐ Full Snickers bars.
‐ Holy fuck.
‐ I prop lil' Mac down like so,
and I lay the tape along top of him like so,
so he's pointing outwards.
‐ So, uh, ninety degrees, out like that?
‐ Exactly, Dary.
And then I take the tape
and I press it firmly against my pubic bone,
and then I lay her down on top of lil' Mac.
‐ And? ‐ And 4.15 inches.
‐ That's some balls, advertising that there, bud.
‐ Balls! Exactly.
‐ What the actual fuck are you talking about, McMurray?
‐ I learnt on Stern today that you are not "exposed" to measure
from your pubic bone to the tip of your penis on the top side.
You are, in fact, "exposed" to measure from your balls
to the tip of your penis on the underside.
‐ Are you sure? ‐ Well, you don't argue with Stern.
‐ This, the correct mode of measurement,
gives me one additional inch
and, by clinical definition,
a 100% average‐sized penis
at 5.15 inches!
‐ I don't think I've ever seen anyone be so excited to be average.
‐ I don't think that method of measurement is accurate.
WAYNE: Well, if Stern said it...
‐ He didn't say Stern says it.
He says he heards it on Sterns.
‐ Hit 'em with the Hein!
‐ I can Google it.
‐ Let's open the phone lines for this.
‐ Open the lines.
‐ JD Williams from Wallace Township. You're on.
WILLIAMS: McMurray's a piece of shit. ‐ Huh?
WILLIAMS: What kind of kife measuring is that?
How do you keep a straight‐up dime‐piece like Mrs. McMurray
with that pedestrian effort?
You're essentially fuckin' her with a Twinkie.
‐ [chuckles] Good one.
‐ Girth would still be the question... Oh, Glen!
‐ Fuck you!
‐ Uh, John Heinmiller from Elma township, you're on.
HEINMILLER: Ha, why am I not surprised
you can't even figure out how to measure your own dick,
you piece of shit.
I am utterly baffled you got a ring on Mrs. McMurray.
You should be tried for crimes against humanity.
‐ This is a fuckin' ambush.
‐ Brent Zurbrigg from Howick township. You're on.
ZURBRIGG: Holy fuck, McMurray.
Look at you shootin' high stakes snooker with a number two pencil there, buddy.
Why don't you go ahead and tell your wife I rock eight inches in reality,
and nine if I measure in your bunk‐ass way.
Holy fuck. It's my fuckin' heart.
It just breaks for that fuckin' masterpiece.
‐ My wife is a very satisfied woman.
‐ Gary Hoskins from Lucan Biddulph, you're on.
HOSKINS: Your wife is blow‐my‐brains‐out hot, McMurray.
I would literally cut off my own arm to fuck her.
I would 127 Hours both my arms to fuck your wife.
‐ How about I cut 'em both off and stick 'em up your ass, you fuckin'‐‐
‐ Sal Smith from Huron‐Kinloss. You're on.
SMITH: Hey, I was sittin' here, kinda sad for your wife
'cause maybe she doesn't know any better,
but I'm roofing with my friend, Richard,
who fucked her in high school
and he's a fuckin' Dutchman, so...
RICHARD: Hey, ask her if she remembers
Richard Van Den Berg, McMurray.
I took her to semi‐formal in '03,
and then took her down in my dad's Oldsmobile.
‐ Patricia Marie Shuli from Georgian Bluffs. You're on.
SHULI: I fucked McMurray at a buck and doe in Drayton,
and four inches is a criminal embellishment.
‐ Patti?
SHULI: McMurray, if you were ten off the tee,
I still wouldn't golf with you. Fuckin' end it.
‐ I think I might have a wee bit more time for Crack an Ag.
‐ Ronnie Schroeder from Woolwich. You're on.
SCHROEDER: McMurray, get the fuck out of the way
with that peasant cock, you fuckin' novice.
I would hand over one of my kids to suck on those tits.
I'll go long dick style
with your wife all night long! [yelps]
‐ Ooh. Ooh.
‐ It's an average‐sized penis.
♪ theme music playing ♪
‐ How much? ‐ Enough.
‐ Your grandma died.
‐ My Doda died. ‐ Your Doda passed
and left you with enough money to buy the Eagles?
‐ Should I write it on a fuckin' dry‐erase board, or‐‐
‐ Why do you want to buy the team?
‐ I have cousins coming up in minor hockey,
and they're starting to get in trouble now.
They always used to watch your team,
but now, they just don't really give a shit.
‐ And? ‐ And I want to use the money to create
a more exciting environment at the games,
and keep them interested in hockey. ‐ Why?
‐ 'Cause kids in sports stay off the fucking streets.
You fuckin' bug me, dude. ‐ No.
‐ No what?
‐ You cannot buy the Eagles.
‐ [scoffs] I'll go over your head.
‐ Will ya? ‐ Money talks, baby.
‐ We're in first place. ‐ Are you?
‐ So you can't go over my head. ‐ Why?
‐ 'Cause W's talk, "baby."
‐ If I put together a team, will you play us?
‐ If you put together a team, will we play you?
‐ Should I write that on the dry‐erase board, too,
you fuckin' basic?
‐ We're mid‐season.
You want me to ice a first place team
in a meaningless exhibition game,
and risk my guys getting hurt for the games that matter?
‐ Do you want me to use the blue marker or the black marker?
The [inhales] red.
‐ Why would I do that?
‐ Because if I win, you let me take over here.
‐ And if I win? ‐ I'll suck your dick.
‐ Balls?
Deal.
‐ Auntie talks, baby.
‐ We'll see about that, Auntie.
♪
‐ What's up, Auntie?
‐ We're going to Letterkenny.
What's up?
‐ Solo spin class.
Healthy body, healthy mind. I love it.
Maximize every single...
second.
‐ I need a coach.
[yells, then laughs]
[clattering]
You got one. ‐ Fuckin' A.
‐ For what?
‐ We're resurrecting the Letterkenny Irish.
[music stops]
What?
‐ That team is dog shit.
We're resurrecting the Letterkenny Irish.
I need my star players.
Are you in? BOTH: Yes!
‐ All right.
The Letterkenny Irish are back.
‐ Not yet. We're gonna need some finesse.
‐ We'll find you holes. ‐ We'll get you deep.
‐ We know a thing or two about bulging.
Twine.
‐ Daxi. Ronzy. ‐ Tanzy.
‐ Never again. ‐ Got you.
‐ All right, boys, you're in.
Now we just need some sandpaper.
[grunting]
Tyson, Joint Boy, you got a sec?
BOTH: No.
COACH: Will these guys do?
‐ These guys... I will do.
‐ Okay.
‐ So, the Letterkenny Irish are back.
‐ Not yet.
We got most of the pieces in place.
But we only got one shot at this.
One chance. One win. You know?
Vomit on your mom's spaghetti, or whatever that talking singer says.
None of these guys have won a championship.
We gotta find some people that know how to win.
‐ Where do we find them? ‐ At the gym.
‐ But we were just there!
‐ They weren't there when we were there!
‐ We were here the whole time.
‐ Really?
‐ And we're inski. ‐ Soda Popinski.
‐ Can't wait to get back out there, Betty‐Anne.
‐ Been far too long, Mary‐Anne. ‐ You won't be playing.
‐ Huh? ‐ Huh?
‐ You'll be coaching.
‐ Huh? ‐ Huh?
‐ Hold up. How come they can't they play?
Just fuckin' around.
‐ Same. Absolutely in for telling men how to do shit.
‐ Absolutely in for telling men how to win shit.
‐ Phew.
I thought we were gonna have one of those conversations,
you know, where women can do anything men can do.
[laughs] So stupid.
‐ That isn't a conversation.
‐ Women can do anything men can do.
‐ Women can do it better.
‐ Eh... no.
‐ No? ‐ No!
‐ No? ‐ No.
‐ No? ‐ No!
‐ No? ‐ No.
‐ No? ‐ No!
‐ No? ‐ No.
‐ So, you're saying men are superior to women?
‐ Yeah! ‐ Yeah?
‐ Yeah. ‐ Yeah?
‐ Yeah! ‐ Yeah?
‐ Yeah. ‐ Yeah?
‐ Yeah! ‐ Yeah?
‐ Yeah. ‐ Yeah?
‐ Yeah. ‐ Explain.
‐ Come on...
‐ No, you come on.
‐ Come on. ‐ You come on.
‐ Come on! ‐ You come on.
‐ Guys, come on.
ALL: You come on!
‐ They're 120 pounds, soaking wet,
full stomachs, pockets full of loonies and toonies.
‐ So? ‐ So, senior hockey players, men,
are up to 220 pounds. More.
‐ So? ‐ That's 100 pounds more!
‐ So? ‐ So they could get killed out there.
You will get killed out there.
You will die. Think that's something to think about,
I think, huh?
Do you have good relationships with your mom?
‐ Yeah. ‐ No.
‐ Well, better pick up a phone and call her,
'cause you're dead.
'Cause you wanted to play a game
with men who are bigger and faster than you.
‐ And faster? ‐ Yeah.
‐ Yeah? ‐ Yeah.
‐ Yeah? ‐ Yeah. Yeah!
Look, I watch the Olympic games.
All the events. All of 'em.
Every single one. All right?
And when the Olympic games are on, all the events, every one,
every single one,
the men's speeds, results and times
eclipse the women's speeds, results and times
every time. ‐ Play us.
‐ In what? ‐ Hockey.
‐ [scoffs] Your team folded.
‐ The girls are still around.
‐ The girls would love this.
‐ If you win, we'll coach with you.
‐ You're playing them. Get the boys gelling.
I want to test drive an idea I have for the Rez game.
‐ Okay.
‐ No contact.
‐ [laughs] I know.
‐ Don't want our guys getting hurt out there.
‐ Yeah, the guys.
‐ All right, let's do this.
‐ You're going down.
‐ Oh, my God. I'm so scared.
‐ Good.
[laughs, then wheezes]
‐ Your spines are gonna snap...
[wheezes] You're gonna have a feeding tube...
[laughs, then wheezes]
[groans mockingly]
[laughs]
BOTH: Hello. Well...
You go. No, you go.
Okay, I'll go.
‐ I'm back. ‐ That's what you are.
‐ But I have to go back to...
‐ Vancouver, right?
‐ Yeah, for...
‐ Pit bull rescue still?
‐ Yeah. ‐ You're a good fuckin' gal, Rosie.
‐ I need a favor.
‐ Oh.
[whimpers]
‐ Come here, bud. Oh, who's a good boy?
‐ Who is this?
‐ That's Zeke.
‐ Is he a Pit? ‐ Pits are banned in the province. I know.
‐ What should be banned is idiots breeding them,
and then selling them to other idiots.
‐ You're a good fuckin' guy, Wayne.
‐ How'd you get him in?
‐ There isn't a vet in the province who backs breed‐specific legislation.
They'll put anything on his papers you ask 'em to.
‐ So, if anyone asks, he's a...
‐ Teacup Yorkie. ‐ Oh, is that what he is?
‐ [chuckles] Kidding. American bulldog.
‐ That's what he is.
‐ I need you to hold onto him for a couple days.
‐ Okay.
‐ His sister has been lethargic since he left,
so I'm going back for her.
‐ And then what?
‐ Then I'm back.
I'll call you in a couple days.
‐ Okay. ‐ Thank you.
‐ All right. Hold up.
Especially youse two.
Just stay like that for me. Mmm. Okay.
You guys are gonna need to get mic'd before your sweaters go on.
‐ Mic'd?
[groans]
[scraping on whiteboard]
‐ Why? ‐ Just...
You, don't talk, okay? It's just better for me.
‐ Huh? ‐ Same for you.
‐ Tanis? ‐ Huh.
‐ Um, may we speak?
‐ Sure.
BOTH: Why do we need mics?
‐ All right, so you know those videos on YouTube
of all the NHL players when they're all mic'd out?
‐ You mean Mic'd Up?
‐ Yeah, whatever.
So, my cousins fucking love those videos
and they watch them over and over and over again.
So, I want to provide for them a pro‐level in‐game experience.
So, for this afternoon's dress rehearsal, youse are all gonna be mic'd out.
‐ Mic'd up. ‐ Fuck you.
‐ [feedback on radio] ‐ All right, Skids.
‐ Natives.
TANIS: Phasers set to stun up there, or what?
‐ Uh, Stewart hasn't picked a song yet, but he‐‐
‐ Roald.
‐ Phasers set to stun, Tanzy!
TANIS: "Tanzy." If this becomes a thing,
I swear to Christ, I will‐‐ ‐ Walk‐up music.
A critical factor in creating a team's identity.
The Vancouver Canucks have Where The Streets Have No Name.
‐ U2.
‐ Anaheim Ducks have Bro Hymn. ‐ Pennywise.
‐ Buffalo Sabres have Let Me Clear My Throat.
‐ DJ Kool.
‐ And the Letterkenny Irish have...
‐ Hmm... A floor burner? ‐ Hmm...
A heart‐string tugger?
‐ Might I suggest... ‐ [hissing]
A Boogie?
[sighs]
‐ Youse ready? ‐ We're missing a few guys, boys.
‐ Who?
‐ Barts, Yorkie, Scholtzy, Fisky, Boomtown.
‐ We're not missing anyone. All right, fuck those guys.
I don't want to talk about them right now.
I got a player who plays bigger than all of them combined, so...
‐ No. ‐ Not...
‐ Oh, yes. BOTH: No!
‐ [Shoresy farts] SHORESY: Will you two just
man up and make out?
I started an office pool for it and the day I picked is tomorrow.
Get tuggin', tit fuckers.
‐ [Shoresy farts] ‐ Fuck you, Shoresy.
SHORESY: Fuck you, Jonesy.
Your mom pulled the goalie on me and now she's preggo.
Surprise, son. Go rake the fuckin' yard. [farts]
‐ Fuck you, Shoresy. SHORESY: Fuck you, Reilly.
I slipped one past your mom, too.
Her preggo farts smell like hot dog water.
‐ [Shoresy farts] ‐ Fuck you, Shoresy.
SHORESY: Fuck you, Jonesy.
Your mom's in her first trimester, and already bitching about baby brain.
Had to tell her she's been dumber than Reilly's mom
since the genesis.
‐ [Shoresy farts] ‐ Fuck you, Shoresy.
SHORESY: Fuck you, Reilly.
I talked your mom into a three‐way with our midwife
and she gassed us both out of the room.
I'm fuckin' humiliated. [farts]
‐ Fuck you, Shoresy.
SHORESY: Fuck you, Jonesy.
Your mom wants to name the baby after the place it was conceived.
Can't wait to meet Martha's Vineyard Shore.
‐ [Shoresy farts] ‐ Fuck you, Shoresy.
SHORESY: Fuck you, Reilly.
Your mom wants the same thing.
How do I shorten down "Handicapped Bathroom
at Cheesecake Factory in Boca Raton."
‐ [Shoresy farts] BOTH: Fuck!
‐ All right, starting up front.
Reilly, you ready? ‐ I'm ready.
‐ Good, 'cause you're goin'.
Jonesy, you ready? ‐ I'm ready.
‐ Good, 'cause you're goin'.
‐ Shoresy, you ready? ‐[Shoresy farts]
‐ Good, 'cause you're goin'.
‐ All right, the Letterkenny Irish are back.
‐ Not yet. This still could get fuckin' embarrassing.
‐ [static on radio] ‐ [sighs]
‐ Skids, you ready? ROALD: Ready.
‐ We are not ready! ‐ Uh...
TANIS: They're coming out! Press play!
‐ I don't have a song yet.
‐ What's in this CD player?
Susan Aglukark.
‐ Shit. Figure skaters must have had the ice before.
‐ That is sexist!
‐ I can't work like this!
TANIS: Press play!
‐ If I'm you, I'm listening to the lady.
♪ "O Siem" by Susan Aglukark playing ♪
♪ O Siem ♪
♪ We are all family ♪
♪ O Siem ♪
♪ We're all the same ♪
JIM: Welcome, one and all, to Letterkenny Memorial Arena
for this afternoon's matinee game
between the Letterkenny Irish
and the Letterkenny Shamrockettes.
Don't forget to buy your 50/50 tickets.
I'd say this afternoon's grand total
could reach $100.
[auctioneer calling]
Sold.
‐ Camera dudes set up?
‐ Affirmative. ‐ "Affirmative."
What is this, the Starship fuckin' Enterprise?
‐ I wish. ‐ Me, too. I wish.
‐ [sighs] Good. Mike's on?
‐ Affirm‐matory?
‐ Fine.
‐ Engage. ‐ Flip on the monitor.
‐ Engaging monitor.
SHORESY: Nice fuckin' bird cage.
At the end of the day, what are you really protecting?
BOTH: Fuck you, Shoresy.
‐ Perfect.
‐ Gotta work with what we've got, bro.
‐ Let's get this fuckin' over with, bro.
‐ Great day for competitive men's hockey, eh.
What's women's hockey like?
Same things, less competitive or what?
[blows whistle]
[crowd cheering]
‐ [buzzer sounds] ‐ [referee blows whistle]
[crowd cheering]
BOTH: Fuck you, Shoresy.
‐ First puck of the campaign, boys. Fuckin' get involved!
♪ "Under Moonlight" by Death From Above plays ♪
[cheering]
SHORESY: Hey, you look like that broad from The Hunger Games.
I'm gonna call you Cuteness Everdeen.
You like edamame?
[whistle blows]
‐ Short shifts, Cuteness.
♪ Under moonlight ♪
♪ A violent tide comes in ♪
♪ The streets are wild... ♪
SHORESY: You skate like a fuckin' girl, birdcage.
‐ 'Cause I am one.
SHORESY: No, you're not.
Are you really?
Holy fuck.
♪ It came like a wave ♪
♪ They came crashing over me ♪
♪ If I could breathe I could swim away ♪
♪ Swim away... ♪
‐ Hey, what's your favorite kind of pizza, Cuteness?
Mine's pizza ass.
Short shifts...
♪ It came like a wave ♪
♪ They came crashing over me ♪
♪ If I could breathe I could swim away ♪
♪ It came like a wave ♪
♪ No one can be me but me ♪
♪ If I could stand I could run away ♪
♪ Run away ♪
[buzzer sounds]
‐ Good shift, Cuteness. Oh!
We should change our Facebook status to "It's complicated."
MARIE‐FRED: Look what the cat dragged in.
WAYNE: Oh, it's better than what the cat coughed up.
‐ Oh.
[makes kissing sounds] Who's that Bronco Buster?
‐ Oh, that's Zeke. ‐ Zeke's having a roll in the hay.
‐ Oh, that's barley. ‐ Can we keep him?
‐ A gal I used to date brought him over asking for some help with him.
Temporarily.
‐ She pushin' up?
‐ No. ‐ Would I like her?
‐ Yeah.
‐ When a friend asks for help, you help them, right?
[barking]
Is he sleeping with us?
‐ Puppies should be crate trained.
They go in the crate every time you leave the house,
or go to sleep, no exceptions.
‐ Well, he may be the only one
getting some sleep tonight. Pitter‐patter.
‐ Oh, who's a good boy?
‐ You guys get fully changed in between periods?
Oh, why do women have to be so different? ‐ We concede.
‐ Oh. Don't be bitter biscuits.
‐ We're not.
‐ I've seen bitter biscuits, and what I'm seeing
is a lot of bitter biscuitry.
‐ Sometimes you get speed‐bagged. ‐ Happens in hockey.
‐ Okay. Look.
Women can do anything men can do...
‐ Shut the fuck up. ‐ We're in.
‐ In what? ‐ To coach, idiot.
‐ Ice time's expensive. Let's use it for practice.
Set up the PK. Get the PP going.
‐ Get jerseys sorted for your line combos.
‐ What are you smiling about?
‐ The Letterkenny Irish are back.
[laughs]
[Right On, Frankenstein! by Death From Above playing]
♪ You don't believe in ghosts ♪
♪ Lightning strikes the body ♪
♪ And threatens life the most ♪
♪ I do my own grades lately ♪
♪ I don't need any help ♪
♪ Just let me sit here quiet ♪
♪ In here by myself ♪
♪ I don't wanna die but I wanna be buried ♪
♪ Meet me at the gates of the cemetery ♪
♪ I've been a zombie lately ♪
♪ I got nothin' to say... ♪