We docked in Montreal, and I was determined to feel its energy.
You know how Montreal is.
Alive. Bohemian, kinda. Aware of itself and proud of itself.
It's a city with a pulse.
I'd been on the ship for a while, and I wanted some civilization.
Specifically, I wanted to gawk at women and eat steak.
St. Catherine's is the rue to flock to, non?
I decided to walk there because I'm a floundering idiot and I thought it wouldn't take long.
An hour and a half later on just...the shittiest pair of shoes that you could wear on your feet.
I bought them at a place that sells surf stuff, but no actual surf boards. You get me?
I required quick, cheap shoes because I was en route to a gig and I refuse to do comedy in boots, which I had accidentally worn.
So, I found these canvas sleeves that were adhered to a length of what must have been parchment paper.
Purchased them from some guy who seemed as though he wanted his store to stay open just a week longer.
He was speaking to two sexy blondes.
One of them tried on a bikini during their visit and I wanted to watch her do this.
Can't do that, though. Unless you get a webcam set up in the ceiling.
Which is the reason you open a surf place without the surf boards.
Anyway, piece of shit shoes. Walking and walking and thinking, "Why am I not getting a cab? This is a real city. There are cabs."
None drove by because I was leaving the ship.
What's shitty about leaving ships is that once you disembark, you're in some industrial area that normal people never go to unless they're collecting a pickup truck's worth of crushed stone.
It's isolated.
Lots of transport trucks.
Not many party buses.
I eventually ended up near actual restaurants and stores.
Ultimately, I landed at a place that french people would call a 'bistro'.
I only stopped there because the awning had beouff in the title.
The food was fancier to look at than it was flavourful to eat, but that wasn't important.
Becauese the waitress was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
She must've been.
She was french and petite and she was bringing me food and - wait a second.
Was she really so beautiful, or did it seem that way because I'd been on a boat full of dudes for a week or two?
That's what it was.
This was just an everyday, run-of-the-mill hottie.
They're not that hard to find. Especially in Montreal.
And it donned on me:
If a woman has poor self-esteem or a goiter, she should just hang out down by the docks.
A month later, when I was ready to leave the ship for good, I'd learned that some women are already doing this.
I've been fantasizing about winning the lottery lately.
It's about as productive as anything else I've been doing.
I mostly blame Top Gear.
Have you watched it?
The entire population of India loves the programme.
Anyway, they review very lavish cars and make you want to own them.
Y'know the first thing I'd do if I won the lotttery?
Buy a suit.
I'd buy a suit that regular, hobo Paul would look at and say, "Even if I won the lottery, I wouldn't pay that much for a suit."
I'd immediately follow this by purchasing a $4,000 wristwatch.
I'd wear the suit out of the store, and I'd strut around town until I got mustard or whatever on it, and then I'd get out the pinking shears and turn the suit into rags to wipe down one of the several cars I would purchase if money wasn't an issue.
Money's always an issue, of course, and no one ever wins the lottery.
It's like a molecule getting picked to play shortstop. It never happens.
I don't know where that analogy came from.
When I was a kid I was jealous of Scrooge McDuck.
But it wasn't because of his vast fortune or his cool name.
It was because of his coin swimming pool that he had.
Remember that, people over twenty-six?
He'd go for a swim in his vault, and dive from his diving board into his pit of coins?
These days, Harper is doing the same thing with all of Canada's useless pennies.
I didn't envy the gold, or the vault, or the various fractures someone would get if they actually tried to dive into a pool of coins.
Being the youngest of three boys, I think I admired the privacy of it.
And the fact that his older duck brother didn't own it first.
I just want to take a brief moment to let everyone know that when I searched for that image, I typed 'Scrooge McDuck' into the subject line, and the first suggestion to come up was "Scrooge McDuck net worth."
Fictional cartoon ducks don't have net worths. Fictional cartoon ducks are worthless.
Just so we all know.
While waiting for my beautiful steak brought by the beautiful Montreal waitress, I saw someone practicing the tight rope.
She had a cable linked between two trees, a foot or so off the ground.
As I watched her, it all finally made sense.
"Of course! You start out at a low height!"
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