2003-01-20

I went to Montreal for the day on Saturday. Which of course made me even more maddeningly aware of how much Montreal kicks Ottawa’s ass. Damn the French and their “really fucking good shopping” and their “more than five bars that don’t suck” and their “beautiful architecture”. Self-righteous fucks. Upon returning to the tepid dirge of Ottawa’s social scene Saturday evening, I had a beer or two to console myself. Or perhaps three or four. Pitchers. I really can’t say.

Not surprisingly, yesterday was another long session of physical bonding with my couch. Luckily I’d had the foresight to rent Day of the Dead a few days before, so I got to while away the nauseated hours laughing my ass off at sweet zombie goodness. Day of the Dead rules. There’s a scene where a zombie lurches up off a table after being dissected for scientific research, and all his internal organs slosh out of his open gut onto the floor. It looks (and sounds) like someone tipped over a pot of spaghetti and meatballs. The amputation scene is stellar: it’s helpful to know that a zombie bite can be effectively treated simply by hacking off the affected limb with a machete and then cauterizing the wound with a burning gasoline-soaked rag, using a big fucking ROCK for anesthetic during the procedure. Things they should teach in Boy Scouts, I say. (“To earn your ‘Zombie Survival’ badge, you must perform a mercy killing on an infected comrade, slice off a zombie’s head with a shovel, and scream ‘YOU KILLED JENKINS, YOU FUCKING PUS BAGS!’ while unloading an automatic weapon at an approaching legion of the undead.”)