A/N: You know how I say you shouldn't ask about these random one shots? You can ask about the other ones, now. This one has no explanation.
Bonus points to the people that get the reference to the Cena/Edge hotel promo.
"I'll take a Miller High Life, please," Ken Kennedy told the waitress as she handed him a menu.
"I'll have a Bud Lite," Jericho ordered as he took his menu from the waitress.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Kennedy interrupted, "this is Wisconsin. Better yet, this is Green Bay, Wisconsin. We don't believe in that Budweiser junk. Give him a Miller Lite."
"That's great because we don't even carry Budweiser here," the waitress informed the three men. "And for you?" she asked, turning to Edge.
"I'll have a mimosa, if it's not too much trouble," Edge smiled.
Kennedy and Jericho stared at Edge with dropped jaws.
"A…mimosa?" Kennedy reiterated, not exactly understanding why Edge would order such a drink.
"Yes, a mimosa," Edge nodded. The waitress confirmed their order and went to get it as the three men mulled over the menu.
"Edge, you're in a sports bar for the Packers game. Why couldn't you order a more…I don't know, manly alcoholic beverage?" Kennedy asked, getting embarrassed in his hometown.
"Ken, you know that I don't care much for football. It's hockey for pussies," Edge said, but said it quietly enough so he would not offend any fellow football fans nearby.
"Pussies? Pussies? When Brett Favre threw that forty-seven yard touchdown pass just mere days after his father died, was he being a pussy? Are you a pussy when you get slammed to the ground by a three hundred pound man with more force than a Chokeslam from Hell with nothing to cushion your fall but the dreaded frozen tundra? No, you're not," Kennedy ranted, garnering stares from curious onlookers. Some looked at him as if he was crazy. Others looked at him as if he was a motivational speaker giving a beautiful speech about self empowerment.
"Where's the weapons? Where's the sticks?" Edge asked.
"I'll tell you where the sticks are," Jericho muttered under his breath, merely trying to be a jackass.
"Sorry, Ken, I'm from Canada. I believe in hockey. I don't believe in football unless it's the CFL."
"The CFL? Now that's for pussies," Kennedy said.
"Here is your mimosa, sir," the waitress said, setting the orange drink on a coaster in front of Edge.
"Thanks, hun," Edge said, slipping her a five dollar bill.
"And your Millers," she said, giving Jericho and Kennedy their drinks and the tipped her. "Ready to order?"
"Uh…We'll take some nachos and cheese sticks to start off with," Kennedy ordered for the group.
Edge sipped on his mimosa and added, "Oh, would it be too much trouble for a sausage and cheese platter?"
"No, not at all. Your order will be right up."
"Unbelievable," Kennedy rolled his eyes. "This is a damn sports bar, not the Canadian froufrou club."
"I can have high class fun," Edge said.
As promised, the waitress quickly brought their items.
"Excuse me, gents, I need to use the little boys room," Edge said, getting up and leaving the table.
"Why are you so quiet tonight, Chris?" Kennedy asked, downing the rest of his beer.
"You know I think that this is the most peaceful place on earth, right?"
"Are you crazy?"
"I don't know. Watch this," Jericho grinned. He grabbed a butter knife and stabbed one of Edge's cheese wedges with it.
"Did I miss any of the game?" Edge asked, sitting down.
"Nah, pre-game is still on," Kennedy answered, munching on a cheese stick.
Edge spotted the knife in his cheese. "Alright, who cut the cheese?"
"You smelt it, you dealt it," Jericho answered.