Mason jars and angry Minnesotans

Thursday night was deemed worthy of what we call in my family a "Stress Management Meeting". These typically involve groups of friends, large quantities of beer, and endless smartass remarks.
The participants: Me, an art major buddy, and her sister.
The venue: Trailer Trash Night at a local bar.
The highlight of the evening had to be the arrival of the band. Granted, I have a little bit of a rockstar fetish but these guys didn't really fit that particular build. What made their arrival so great was the hour long parallel parking fiasco that took place right outside the window where we were sitting. Hour. Long. There was curb jumping, bumper tapping, the back-forth-back-forth-no-progress-shuffle, and they even gave up once just to come around the block and try it again. Because the space most assuredly got larger while they were cruising. Ultimately, other bandies walked up and they switched the malfunctioning driver out for a good one. Much to his embarassment, Dude 2 aced it in a heartbeat to the roaring applause of the bar. Or at least our booth.
After that entertainment ended, we were blessed with delightful chap who heard our parking-related mirth and decided to give us a visit. He wandered over, all 5 feet of him, half-filled pitcher of mystery liquid in hand (with two straws for rapid consumption). I caught an accent and asked, innocently of course, where he was from. Upon answering "minnesota", I caught the accent and, again INNOCENTLY, poked fun at the 'o'. Instantly, he became defensive and explained how horrendous the Iowa accent was. Apparently, we click in the back of our throats when we say things like "click", "buck", and "chick". I couldn't tell any difference between the two accents but he became so disgusted that he told us to "quit making that gross noise". Finally, I broke down and employed one of his friends to remove him from the table. I could hear him walking away still complaining about our nasty accents. I've decided that his anger stems from when his Iowa-native ice skating coach said he would never make it in professional speed skating because of his abnormally small thighs. It's just a theory.
And so ended our delightful evening. I've left out several details that involve hookers, noise makers, and the disappearance of the month of July but I'm not sure that it would make any real sense to anyone else. Perhaps when you're older...