(See, ’cause this is my ‘Oh!‘ face. ‘Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!‘
What? None of you have frigging seen ‘Office Space‘? Damn. Boy, do I feel like a cluetard, then. Let’s just get on with this damned thing, then. Bitches!)
Hey there, folks.
First of all, thanks to the well-wishers (or at least ‘non-ill-wishers’) who hoped my trip to Montreal would be entertaining, safe, and interesting. And for the record — it was, it was, and it was. From a ‘get your head on straight and forget about work’ point of view, it was just what the doctor ordered.
(Or more appropriately, maybe it’s what the naughty nubile night nurse ordered. But you knew what I meant already, didn’t you?)
On the other hand, on the ‘come back from Canada with juicy, eye-popping stories’ front, it was woefully inadequate. But I’ll see what I can do, because that’s all I’ve got to work with right now. Trekking six hours to another country to tour the boobie bars can turn out to be many things, folks, but it’s always exhausting. So I’m pretty much incapable of coming up with much that didn’t happen in the past 72 hours or so.
(Which is a shame, because I’d like to think that — if I were in top form — I could make up all sorts of toehair-curling shit about a stripper run to Canada. Holy hell, that ought to be right up my pervy alley. I must be tired.)
So, let’s see — what actually did happen up north, anyway? Frankly, we were a pretty tame crowd. For two carfuls of thirty-something dirty-minded guys schlepping six fricking hours and crossing frigging borders to see some moneymakers jiggled, we really didn’t spend much time seeing said jiggling.
First of all, there was the issue of getting to the hotel. Not finding the hotel, mind you. Not navigating to the hotel. And not obtaining an actual visual on the damned hotel. All of those things were pretty simple, as it turned out. But that last leeeetle step of being able to fricking get to the hotel — well, that took another half-hour or so. There was some construction thingy or other that blocked the regular off-ramp near the place, and no off-ramp coming the other way, and another major highway crossing the one we were on, and… well, suffice to say that it would have taken a goddamned MIT graduate to navigate through that clusterfuck and get to the place.
So it was lucky we had one in the car. I knew it was a good thing we invited Sean on this trip.
Anyway, we finally got there around six-thirty, and decided to leave for downtown around seven. Just enough time to shower and clean up a bit. Or to grab a seat at the bar and get the boozing started, depending on your priorities.
(For the record, I had two beers and got in on a round of rum shots for the half of us who stayed at the bar. What, we need to wash up and smell good for strippers? Ttthhhhppppttt!)
Our first stop downtown was not at a bouncy-bouncy bar, either. Nope. Six hours of driving will leave you a bit peckish, so we stopped into a sports bar (which is famous, I think, but I can’t remember the name) for a little nosh. And to boo the Yankees. And — for me, anyway — to watch Syracuse come agonizingly close to knocking off Florida State… and then not. If there hadn’t been naked women on the near horizon, I think that might have been a bit of a downer. Even so, it was pretty damned close. Syracuse loss… girls taking off all their clothes… yeah, that’s just about a wash. I think I have a sports problem. Somebody help me.
But enough about my lopsided sense of priorites. After dinner, we decided to get our bachelor friend lubed up before we got our bachelor friend… well, ‘lubed up‘, in a manner of speaking. So we went in search of a traditional bar, before beginning the quest for Canadian cootchie.
(Would you prefer ‘Canucky ca-nookie’?)
(Maybe ‘Quebeci cookie’ would be better?)
(Or how about simply ‘Northern exposure’? We can do this all day if you want, people. I got nowhere else to be.)
Anyway, we ended up first at Winston Churchill’s pub, for another round of beer and shots. (Slippery Nipples this time — an apropos choice, I suppose, but just a little bit girly, if you ask me.) Then off to another bar for more brews and another set of shots (Jagermeister for this round — my choice, though only the groom-to-be and one other guy were adventurous enough to go there with me). It was about that time that a few of the guys switched to Red Bull ‘n’ vodka (*shudder*), so it was clearly T-minus very little.
It was around midnight before we saw our first bare Canadian boob.
(And the second was right there, too, which was quite a relief, of course. Nobody wants to see just one boob, under any circumstances. That’s like reading half a book, or eating half a sandwich, or getting smacked in the nads with a four iron.
Yeah, I know — that last one doesn’t really fit the pattern. Look, I’m just saying it’s bad, okay? Don’t make me work so damned hard for this one.)
Actually, after the first pair was sighted, the breastices flowed pretty much like water. If you’ve never been into a strip joint yourself, I can tell you — the places are practically teeming with naked nipples. You couldn’t swing a dead cat in one of those places without smacking a perky boob.
(Which is one of the reasons why we don’t often swing dead cats in there — I mean, who wants to be smacked in the chest with a roadkill carcass? How rude!
Oh, and plus, the bouncers would beat the living shit right out of you for that. They don’t take kindly to dead animal swinging of any kind while the girls are working. I think that’s, like, rule #3 when you walk in the place. Seriously. You could look it up.)
After that, all of the really interesting, Penthouse Letter-y types of things that you really, really expect to happen in a strip club pretty much completely failed to materialize. Oh, sure, we kept the bachelor supplied with booze, and bought him a few booth dances, and a couple of the guys got a private dance or two of their own, but it was pretty standard stuff, frankly. There were no girl-on-girl mustard wrestling bouts. None of the ladies could wrap her leg behind her back and unhook her bra with her toes. And there were no twins, or triplets, or even second-cousins, as far as I could tell, anywhere to be seen. By the time the bars closed up shop at around 4am, we were pretty much ready to call it a night. The bouncers barely had to drag any of us off the stage at all.
(Just the one dude who wanted to lick the dancing pole. He’s not entirely stable, honestly. Of course, we would have stopped him, but like I said, it hadn’t been a particularly memorable nudie bar night.
And seeing your buddy desperately trying to wrap his tongue around a big metal bar while three burly Canadians are trying to throw him down a flight of stairs? Now that’s entertainment!)
So, that’s pretty much it. We grabbed a late-night snack and cabbed it back to the hotel. We were in bed by five, five-thirty at the latest. Just another day at the office.
(Except that I was sharing a room with Mike, instead of my wife. And we both thought the wheezy A/C was the other guy gasping his last breath on the planet… but of course, neither of us bothered to check on the other, and didn’t mention it until the next morning. For all we knew, we were gonna wake up across the room from a cold asthmatic carcass — we didn’t care. That’s how tired we were. And hey, that would’ve meant no fighting to get in the shower first, either. Hmmm.)
And there you have it — to be honest, some of the most entertaining stuff happened in the car on the way there and back. My finest moment came on the trip up:
Mike: Yeah, my singing is best when the music’s really loud, and I’m alone.
Me: Right. Isn’t that how sex works for you, too?
But there was plenty more that was probably only funny at the time. We had a field day with Timmy being able to — and willing to, apparently — identify a Neil Diamond song on the radio. We spent a good twenty minutes adding ‘-vouz‘ to the ends of all of our words, in honor of the French-speakingness of the place. There were several rounds of ‘Who the hell did that?! And what the hell have you been eating!?!’ played along the way. And on the trip back, we — well, I, at least — learned the definitions of ‘Cleveland steamer’ (thanks to Sean) and ‘hot lunch’ (courtesy of Tim, and thanks ever so much, really).
(Which are closely related, and way, way, way not things that you want to look up. Or know about. Or remember that you’ve ever heard, unless you’re roughly as twisted as I am — and apparently, my friends are — and find such things freaking hilarious, given the proper context.
Seriously, dammit. I’m not screwing around here. If you don’t know already, chances are you don’t want to know. And don’t blame me if you don’t sleep well, should you ignore my advice and look it up. I got no control over you people.)
Okay, let’s wrap this puppy up, shall we? Given the volume of claptrap I’ve just spewed in your direction, it would seem that I’m fairly well recovered from my little adventure. I suppose ten hours of sleep and a Monday off work will do that for you. So I suppose I’ll check you cats in a day or two, when I’ve got something else to discuss. I’m guessing that whatever it is, it won’t have anything to do with bare, beautiful breasticles… but hey — we can always keep our fingers crossed, eh? Later, folks.Permalink | 4 Comments