Cultural Mind-fuck, Scene 1: Wrong move.

Denmark was on a much-needed visit to Iceland's house. Drinking like fuck can really wear a man down, and Denmark (with the hairdo agonised over by fans the world over) was no exception. Having been invited to Iceland's fanciest restaurant, he now sat before a steaming full course meal ready to shovel down his throat like a murderer shovels dirt into a pit concealing a newly-killed victim before the police arrived. Was that a weird example? Yes, yes it was.

Anyway, he tucked in, and shovelled every last crumb and drop. He even licked the plates and scooped the last drops of ice cream and juice onto his tongue with a spoon.

How he didn't spontaneously explode and shower the restaurant with his innards and half-digested full-course-meal like the fat guy from the Monty Python Sketch is anyone's guess.

So, after paying for the bill (Iceland himself being the waiter), Denmark laid down an extra few krónaas Iceland moved to take his looming pile of plates and cups away.

Iceland blinked his violet eyes a few times and stared at the extra money sitting on the receipt.

"Um…what's this?" he asked.

Now it was Denmark's turn to look puzzled.

"Uh…a tip. Y'know, extra cash for your trouble," he explained, not understanding.

Iceland's expression turned dark, and he glared at the worried Dane with utter contempt.

He then took his tray and smashed Denmark straight round the face with it.

As Denmark reeled in his chair, completely stunned, Iceland gave him another evil look before muttering "You sicken me," and storming off in a huff.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Tourists visiting Iceland should know that tipping at a restaurant is considered an insult!

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Cultural Mind-fuck, Scene 2: More heresy, Russian style!

It was around 1756, and England was on a political visit to Russia. I don't know exactly why, or why they'd chosen to have the meeting in some down-and-out abandoned shed in Siberia, but he was. Anyway, on the way England spotted a small and convenient store and quite fancied a spot of tea to warm himself up, the apparently- permanent winter in the vast country now really starting to bite. So, he broke away from his group without a word and ventured inside.

He hadn't even closed the door when a loud, booming cheerful voice chirruped:

"HI ENGLAND!"

England jumped back and seized his suitcase as if this could somehow protect him yelling "FUCKING SHIT!"

When no attack came, he lowered his rather frost-bitten shield and saw none other than Russia standing behind the counter, smiling cheerfully at him in a way that made most people run for the hills.

England sighed, somewhat relieved, and also more than a bit embarrassed. Trying to ignore the confused stares from the locals, he adjusted his collar for no apparent reason (as they do) and went to look for some tea. He gave the smiling Russia a polite, restrained nod as he went by, just to be safe.

He came back to the counter absolutely livid after no more than a minute or so.

The angry Brit glared at the large nation, not caring why he was there and not in the Kremlin as pre-organised or the fatal consequences that could arise if he provoked the Russian. His problem was far greater than a matter of life and death.

"YOU HAVE NO BLOODY TEA? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU, MAN?" he shouted, slamming his fist on the counter to give his anger extra emphasis.

Russia just kept on smiling.

"England," he said, giggling. "This is Russia. No tea here."

England gave the other a withering look.

"GOD, I HAD NO IDEA!" he snarled sarcastically.

Suddenly a dark, searing aura burned around Russia, and his violet eyes flashed.

"You are going to buy something, da?" he rumbled, scaring the Brit half to death.

England laughed nervously.

"U-uh…sure…why not, while I'm here?" he stammered, grabbing for the nearest thing; a bottle of vodka, and shoving it onto the counter. "Ha…ha…"

Suddenly everything was bright again, and Russia was back to normal, beaming like a playful five-year-old.

"Yay! Lucky me!" he chirruped, scanning the item and popping it into a bag.

"Yeah…lucky…" England muttered darkly, out of Russia's earshot, taking the bag and placing a note in front of Russia.

Russia responded by handing over a pale brown block.

England took it, and stared at the weird thing, at a total loss at how to react.

"What…is this?"

Russia blinked, confused at the Brit's confusion.

"Money, silly."

"YOU GIVE ME A BROWN BLOCK AND CALL IT MONEY?" England shrieked, arms flailing wildly.

"Da," was the pleasant reply.

England was too stunned to respond. So Russia added:

"By the way, that 'brown block' is actually solidified tea."

"…Come again?"

"Tea. It's a block of tea."

England was out the door before the Russian had even got the last word out, sprinting down the road ignoring the Russian's cries of "Wait, you forgot your change!", hollering for his companions to wait up and get a fire going, they're gonna have some piping hot tea tonight!

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Until the nineteenth century, solid blocks of tea were used as money in Siberia!

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Cultural Mind-fuck, Scene 3: Lethal lavatories .

England was walking down his corridor to the living room one morning and rubbing his sleepy eyes. Without any warning, as everything that occurred with a certain hero-crazed nutburger in his house, the door to the toilet burst open, and a limping, terrified America sprang out, turned and raced towards him at such speed the Brit's shocked senses couldn't react in time to get out of the way.

The result was a painful head-on collision of two men that every USxUK fangirl dreams of, except far more awkward and potential-fanfic-material-y.

They jerked, shoved and swore until England finally shoved the blubbering American off him and glared, leaning back and rubbing his sore arse (you know, hurt from when he hit the floor).

"WHAT IN THE BLAZES IS WRONG WITH YOU?" he roared, not giving two damns about the neighbours and the fact that it was seven in the morning.

"The toilet hurt me!" America wailed, rubbing his arm.

England rolled his eyes.

"Here, let me see that," he muttered, grabbing the other's arm and inspecting it. Sure enough, there was a large purple bruise forming under the skin.

"Blimey."

"I KNOW, RIGHT?" America whimpered. "THE THING'S TRYING TO KILL ME! IT'S A MONSTER! I KNEW IT HAD A GRUDGE AGAINST ME THE MOMENT I SAT ON IT'S FACE!"

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU, TOILETS DON'T DO ANYTHING EXCEPT DIGEST YOUR SHIT, MUCH LESS HAVE HOMICIDAL TENDANCIES!" England shouted.

Unheeded, in the gloom of the bathroom, England's toilet giggled.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: 40,000 Americans are injured by toilets each year.

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Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 4: You Kinda Ate the Wrong Thing.

Japan entered Poland's living room, clad in head-wrap, apron and all, and announced that dinner would be ready shortly.

Poland smiled smugly. God it was so nice to have slaves do all the hard work for you.

-Several minutes later.-

Sitting at Poland's table making small talk (mostly one-sided self-aggrandising nonsense on Poland's part, with Japan nodding and slipping in the odd 'I see' and 'That's nice' to indulge his proud host), the subject of what Japan had gone through to prepare the dish in the first place.

"Carefully sliced horse meat," Japan explained humbly. "I shot one on the way here."

Poland sniggered. Japan must've gone through the cranky old guy's farm. Serves the bastard right for calling his ponies gay abominations fit only for eating, digesting and pooping out.

"Like, awesome!"

A few more minutes went by, with Poland once again doing 99.9% of the talking.

"So," he said suddenly, "what did the horse look like?"

Japan stopped eating for a moment and looked to the ceiling as if the answer was written there.

"Hm. Brown with beige dots all over it."

"Huh, sounds like my Pony," Poland remarked, taking another mouthful.

"It was quite small for a horse, actually," Japan recalled, "I think it was a young one. I feel rather guilty now..."

"Aw, don't be, the thing was probably gonna get eaten by the crazy old guy anyway," Poland dismissed with a dainty wave of his hand.

"And for some reason it had a pink ribbon in its mane..."

Poland froze.

"Wait...a pinkribbon...?"

"Yes. A bright, horrible pink. Even its saddle was pink, and had the word "Po...land"...on...it..."

Japan fell silent, horrified. Poland was mute and white in the face.

"...Oh dear."

No-one heard from either Poland or Japan for quite some time after...

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Raw horse meat is a popular food in Japan. They like it sliced up.