E R N I E ' S H O U S E O F W H O O P A S S
For some reason, when I go out and do something -- something really big and worthy of writing about -- I like the events to have a theme. not like we all wear sailor suits and sing "Tomorrow" kind of theme, I mean a common thread to tie the events together. I remember when I was growing up, there was some kind of a national charity/fundraiser/drive called "Hands Across America." The theme would be people from different communities would all gather up and hold hands in one big human chain, with the ultimate goal of one continuous human connection reaching from coast to coast. I adopted that theme to Canadian Jay's bachelor party in Ottawa this past August, and thus "Nuts Across Canada" was born. But before we get into who's nutsack went where and with whom, let us begin the story from the beginning.
The foundation of this bachelor party lay in an airshow. An airshow that the best man would be performing with, he being a member of the USAF's A-10 demonstration team. The weekend was obviously declared "All Cocks, No Box" and the goal was all said Hunter Gathers (HG's) attending the bachelor party would meet up in Ottawa on or before Saturday afternoon, to be VIP guests of the Carp Airport airshow. Everyone except myself and my road buddy Jeff made it up in time for the airshow, as we left Boston at 7:30am on Saturday morning, not destined to arrive in Ottawa until 2:30 later that day.
In the meantime, the current HG's of the party sought libations and found it in a stores called, well, The Beer Store. I truly regret not being there for this part of the trip, as I can assure you I would have stipped naked and run cock bouncing between the colossal pallets of beer. But alas, that damned oncall pager has foiled me once again.
But alas, Jeff and my's travels were carring us northward, through New Hampshire, Vermont, across the Canadian border into Quebec, Canada, and finally into Ontario. I will take a moment to point out that we had the hottest little border crossing girl checking us through. Yes indeed a naughty, bad, dirty, little blue eyed brunette border crossing girl. At least I'll always remember her that way. You will have to forgive me for not getting her picture so you too could drool at her Canadian hotness, but all we had for identification was our drivers licenses and didn't want to risk body cavity searches.
Up through Montreal the winds carried us, where I came across a startling fact. The graffiti there was written in French. I was dumbfounded. It never occured to me that someone might actually vandalize an overpass in a language other than English. I was pleasantly amused.
Quebec has many stupid road signs, and someone there obviously feels the need to punctuate their meaning with pictures. Look at this. What the fuck does this mean? Your truck is going to be picked up? Who the fuck is coming, Godzilla? This signs translates to English as, "Park Here to Wait For Godzilla to Throw You." Or how about, "Hey American if we catch you speeding you will have to pay a us a fine of $4 US dollars.
After many miles of fucking nothing but corn between Montreal and Ottawa, we finally arrived at the airport and met up with our fellow Hunter Gatherers. Arriving too late to actually catch any of the flying demonstrations, we took a few ceremonial pictures and then set out for more important things: booze.
Back to the hotel we go, stopping off to pick up a few quarts of Gatorade as hangover preventative maintenance. The hotel -- the Brook Street Hotel in Ottawa -- as fucking spectacular. Our room had an birds eye view of the hotel's pools and golf course. And no, I didn't bring my clubs, fuck all.
But freshly groomed golf courses and brown bottles of beer could not hold this crowd of HG's for long, as it was time for us to go out and seek the three B's -- burgers, beer, and boobs. The best man, Puddy, being the forethinker that he is, arranged for a bus to transport us all around in. Yes it was a short bus, much like you see the Window Lickers taking to school in the morning, but that was no matter. We and our Holy Arc of Beer piled on the bus and sped off for the ballpark. That's right, the local Ottawa AAA club was playing the Pawtucket Red Sox (local to me), and one of the A-10 pilots was tossing out the first pitch.
I'd like to take this time to state that we had seats right on the third base line where the Paw Sox dugout was, and we asked one of their coaches if we could borrow a bat for a photo opportunity. He didn't even reply, just stared at us like I had just finger fucked his eight year old sister with a miniature poodle. We asked again, clearer now, so that he could certainly hear us. Again we were ignored. So fuck you, big fat loser fat man who will never be any more than a coach wannabe. That's right, reach up your ass and see if you can't find a clue. I will surely write your jersey number on my balls, scan, and send to you.
Okay, after sticking around the ball park for enough time to see the first pitch, we set out in search of food. Dave our bus driver brought us to a restaurant which I don't remember the name of because I was becoming rather drunk at this point. We completely took over their outside seating area, and enjoyed many a tasty dish and even more tasty glasses of Molson XXX served to us by a very friendly wait staff. We toasted the groom to be, and wished he and his fiance the best of luck as they embark on their lives together. Yours truely was even given the opportunity to stagger behing the bar for a photo opportunity. And yes, I kept and drank the beer.
Our bellies full of food and beer, we then set off for a bar to drink more beer and make larger asses of ourselves. Or, sorry, that last part was just for me. To a new bar we reached and again, the name escapes me as I was quite intoxicated from our dinner beverages. I think it began with an M though.
It is here at this new place where I broke out with a new fever -- nutsacking. I can not explain what brought on this great wonderment, I can only tell you that I found it extremely amusing to get photographed nutsack exposed with several unsuspecting people. Extremely amusing indeed. Behold...
It's here that I'd like to formally lodge a complaint with all strip club owners. Why can't we take cameras into your establishments? The chicks already agreed to gear down? Why can't we have a few pictures for keepsake?
But alas, as the rules would have it, Puddy had to surrender his camera at the door. Right next to the ATM machine. Where I took out $500 Canadian dollars. Which is what, like $37 American?
Now before I go into this, let me first cut all of you Montreal assholess off at the pass. Yes I have heard about your strip clubs. No I have not been there yet. Hell yes, I plan on making a trip to do so. But I have experienced Ottawa strippers, and so I will comment on them now.
Let me begin by saying that -- at first -- I was not impressed with this strip club. A third place that shall remain nameless, not because I feel any obligation to protect their good name, but because I was too pie eyed to read. There was only one stripper. On one stage. And she was surrounded by no less than ten feet of coin waving Canadian hockey fans. (Yes I know now, Canada doesn't have a $1 bill, but a $1 coin. Even a $2 coin. So most cheap bastards give strippers coins for shaking their cootchie cootchie.)
But as the night wore on -- more strippers came out and I drank more beer -- things began to look up. I think it would be fair to say things peaked when I discovered I could put a $5 bill between my teeth and lay backwards onto the stage. Whatever stripper up there would then get down on her hands and knees, crawl on top me in a 69 position and wriggle aroud for a few minutes before slowly withdrawing and taking the $5 bill between her breasts. Did I mention that I took out $500 Canadian bucks earlier?
I hereby decree that Ottawa strippers earn the same Cool Points Standing as Philadelphia strippers do with me. And I'll even say to the poor girl who's shaved box I accidentally licked while she had it a mere 1" from my face was perhaps worthy of a few cool points more. I also can assure her the second time I licked it (tastes like chicken!) was an accident too.
The night gets fuzzy from here. I do remember giggling and handing $5 bills to all my fellow HG's to get the 69 treatment. I do remember having my dick playfully bitten by one of the dancers. I do remember closing the place.
Outside and back on the bus, the nutsacking quest continued.
From there the evening drew to a close. Dave the bus driver brought us all back to our hotel, safe and sound and not a man lost. Thanks Dave!
We all sat up for quite awhile talking and polishing off the beer. And when it was time we headed for bed. Hey, even Superman needs his rest.
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