EDIT: The school's LAN isn't letting me post new replies anymore. =b You'll have to wait until I get home in three hours for me to post again. Keep posting what you want to do next so I don't have to edit my next post seven times before I submit it.

It seemed like he had completely forgotten that he had ealier mistaken me for a cyborg zombie, perhaps as a result of feeling lost. I wondered exactly why these Canadians and the Irish poser were all so absent-minded.
"Who at the arcade ordered the cyborg zombies?" I asked.
"Must've been the manager," the Irish man replied. "He's usually runnin' the prize counter at the back o' that there place. Haven't ya played the Romero Challenge yet?"
"No," I replied. "The tickets cost money, and I'm financially-challenged."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out twenty dollars and thirty-five cents. "Fer givin' a hoot and tryin' to help me out," he said as he dropped the cash and change into my paws.
"Why does everyone feel so lost?" I asked as I pocketed the monies.
"Ya'mean it's not jus' me?" he said, seeming somewhat surprised. "Strange. I hadn't noticed it, m'self."
"How do the healing herbs work?" I asked, holding up a handful of the randomly-picked leaves.
"Now what do I look like, eh? A physician?"
"Not really," I replied. "You look Canadian. I think it's the shirt."
"Oh, doesn't look too good on me, yeah. The real Canadians seem to like'em more than I do."
"You should get a shirt that says 'kiss me, I'm Irish," I suggested.
"That's the stupidest idear I ever did hear," he said with a disgusted look. "And why would I wear a shirt sayin' I'm Irish? I'm Canadian, fer cryin' out loud!"