That's Not Trumph!

July 1984. The stubby beer bottle was discontinued in Ontario. Upstart long-neck bottles would henceforth hold sway. This was the summer of the knocked-out tooth, the haul back to take a slurp and come to the realization that the bottle is suddenly an inch and a half longer summer. A black hole in the guffawing gullet of the habitual lager drinker.

To wit. Four lads sit around a kitchen table in a bashed-in farmhouse.

Each lad is missing at least one front tooth. Teeth knocked out by the rationalization of a bottling industry miles and miles from their stone strewn, fallow fields.

They are playing euchre.
A hand is dealt.
A card is led, and the next follows suit.
A visibly drunken Mike Ashcroft (aka Asscrack) throws what he thinks is the Left Bower.
It is not the Left Bower.

Robert Jon Miller (aka Rim Job) loudly proclaims his disapproval to his partner.“That's not trumpf!!, Crack!” he lisps. Upon hearing this, each lad at the table throws back his head and howls in complete abandon.

It is a gap-toothed and wistful cry for the loss of their collective incisors.