I forgot to post something about my Montréal trip. Something not very nice.
Sunday night there was this dance, see, and it was at some brand-new über-trendy club high in some corporate skyscraper far from all the other GALA events. The club was so trendy-exclusive, in fact, that the invitation didn't even include a freakin' address. But that's a rant for a different posting.
Anyway, after a good hour of riding the subway and traipsing around a foreign neighborhood in the dark and IN THE RAIN and asking a long string of clueless locals for help, we finally found the club. And the line was at least a block long. And not moving.
I quickly lost interest, bid my fellow club hopefuls adieu and headed for Rue Saint-Catherine to find a cab home. On the way, I passed one of Montréal's billions of homeless people begging on the sidewalk. True to my indifferent Chicago roots, I kept my blinders on and kept walking.
A few steps later -- in what should be a different story altogether -- I felt what I thought was a tiny little fart knocking at my back door. Without disrupting my stride, I opened the valve just a bit to let it out.
And instead of the tiny little peep I expected to come forth, out came a LOUD wake-the-dead kind of fart, trumpeted with all the subtlety of Rush Limbaugh's personality on Don't Wipe Your Ass Day.
So not only did I callously ignore the poor homeless man slumped on the sidewalk in the rain, but I FARTED ON HIM AS I WALKED BY.
I am SO going to hell.