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.�)