Under "Les Beaux Jeudis", there's Thursday's, (yes, I know, it's a fourth day of the week concept, don't need to be a translator to figure that one out) a Montreal institution known for, well, picking up and partying, basically. Yes, some might say that the whole Montreal island serves that purpose, but that bar on Crescent street has been there a long time and has lived up to its reputation. That's where Catherine and I headed after our delicious meal and unbridaled jazz adventure. We sat at the bar for a few minutes, ordered drinks, chatted, and had a look around. Catherine was on fire; she circled the place a few times sniffing for worthy testosterone only to figure out that it was better for us to go downstairs, where the club is and the dancing takes place. I was happy just to sit there and wait for something to happen, but there we were already, on the dance floor, gettin' jiggy with it. I lost Catherine at some point, and since it was very crowded, tried to find somewhere I could sit. There was an empty stool at the end of one of the bars; about 10 drinks were standing in front of it. I walked over and I sat down, ordered a drink, and basically watched the action. After 10 minutes, somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Some huge-assed blond girl looking like she just walked out of the trailer-thrash makeover salon says to me, in a nasty tone : "Chus r'venue, là!!" (I'm back now!)
I look at her in dismay and, being a little slow from all the cosmos I drank up to this point, don't react, and, silly me, smile, and try to start a conversation with my toosh still on the stool. Big mistake. "Aille - kècé qu'tu comprends pas, esti? chus r'venue, faque dégage - Cé ma place, câlisse!" (Hey - what is it that you don't understand, (insert swear word)? I'm back, so fuck off - it's my place, (insert other swear word) ok?)
Here, see Bridges getting up, off the bar stool, doing a little bow, a cheeky reverence, and replying, in a mocking tone "Madâmeuh, votre banc." (Madam, your stool. (which takes a whole other meaning in English, but let's not go there, even though if I was a nasty girl I would have stuck her face in it. But I'm not. I, ladies & gentlemen, am a LADY. Sometimes.) And left her nagging loudly to her friends about how the stupid girl on HER bench wouldn't get up when SHE said so and how she bravely confronted the menacing intruderess, and you-go-girl! sent her on her way, that bitch, hahahahaha, and gulf down the rest of her beer bottle. I think she burped loudly but maybe that was just my imagination implying so. I could still hear her high-pitched Brossard-accent toned voice through the loud dance music as I was walking away from the potential hazard; and oh, waddaya know, there was Catherine grabbing me by the arm.
"Two German pilots, one cute, for me, the other one with shoulders built for you Bridges - They're buying me a drink - this way!"
German pilots? That's the most interesting subject of the evening. My interest is peeked - where to, my friend?
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