Ow, Canada | Mental Poo

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Ow, Canada

I awoke to the sensation of my face being squished.


The hand smooshing me went away…and my face returned to normal.

…then…another squish…harder this time…


..then came the kick to my lumbar…

I get it...I was snoring.

I snore.

My wife has three methods to get me to stop snoring:

1) Yelling
2) Facial distortion techniques
3) Brutal pummeling of my lumbar region or – really – any body part that’s closest to her

It usually doesn’t work.

..because my nose is busted...

...it's completely closed on the right side.

Like South Park, I blame Canada.

The internals of my nose were graciously relocated back when I was about 19 or 20, in the lovely country of Canada.

Specifically, they were bashed to all Hell in the lovely city of Montreal.

I’ve been traveling to Montreal at least once a year for the past, oh, 20 years or so.

Why Montreal, you ask?

I first ventured to the north during – of all things – Spring Break.

When most kids head south to Florida or warmer, sunnier states, I headed up to the frozen tundra of the north with four of my college buddies.

Smart move? I’m not so sure, because I’ve probably left a small fortune in Canada over the years – because of the experiences I’ve had there.

I could probably fund a small guerilla outfit in Latin America for the money I’ve spent.

So what’s the draw to Montreal?

The whole fascination with Montreal started out with the realization that they have an 18-year old drinking age. This is VERY important to college kids who don’t want to be arrested in Florida, but still want to get drunk.

Anyway, at the time, two of my friends and I had planned an overnight trip to Montreal. The plan was to go up on a Friday, and come back on Saturday or Sunday.

On the Friday we were to leave, I had my acid-washed jeans on (this was the 80’s, after all) and my favorite, green striped shirt.

Trust me, this is important.

I go to my bank to exchange my money. I am greeted by a very attractive teller.

“I’d like my money changed to Canadian, please,” I say to her.

She looks at me with a smile.

“Going to Canada? Well..have a great time,” she says.

“Oh,” I say with a wink and sly smile.

“I will.”

The three of us piled into my buddy’s truck and took the 5 hour drive north to Montreal.

By 6 p.m., we had ingested enough alcohol to render Gary Busey incapacitated.

That’s a LOT of alcohol.

As we stumbled down Ste. Catherine Street, I was fumbling and bumbling along…bringing up the rear of the trio.

Being 5’2” tall, my little body can’t handle too much booze…and I had a LOT of booze.

…and then it happened…

Up ahead, I saw my two buddies – who were walking side by side down the sidewalk – get pushed apart as a group of guys walked right through them.

It was one of those *bang* pushes that kind of spun them each around.

..this group of guys walked past me…

Which is where the alcohol grabbed complete hold of my senses…and – sadly – opened my mouth to say:

“You got a problem?” (say this completely slurred, and you get a better visual)

Turns out, yes.

...yes they did have a problem...

The last thing I remember before blacking out was this group of guys turning around, and the lead guy beginning to punch me in the face.

Luckily for him, I was completely numb at the time…or else I may have started crying American tears all over him.

My arms remained at my side. Limp, little, arm-noodles.


The fist came from nowhere.

My head spun around. Then, regretfully, it spun back.


That was it.

As the ground spun toward me (literally…I remember the ground SPINNING towards me…kind of like when they change scenes in Scooby Doo or Batman), I could only picture myself hovering, mid-air, and spinning like a helicopter rotor.


Here’s where it gets freaky.


Some guy holding my shoulders: “Rodney!..Rodney!…You must relax…”



Well..this is weird.

I’m in mid-sentence.

I woke up from my black-out…mid-sentence…

..yelling..at this…this GUY


Me: I’M NOT GOING TO…Hey? How do you know my name?!?”

It’s at this point, that I realize I’m on a completely different street.

There are cops.

There are ambulances.

My friends are in the ambulances.

There’s blood.

Then…I get the full story from this guy (who, coincidentally, was named “Guy” (pronounced in Canada as "Geeeeeeeee" for some f*cking reason):

Here’s how the beating went:

Upon my collapsing, my drunken friends came to my aid.

They did this in the form of getting the absolute sh*t kicked out of themselves.

One of my friends was beaten about the head, and needed stitches in his skull.

My other friend received a punch to the lip from a guy who, apparently, was wearing some kind of ring (I’m guessing it was not a Cap’n Crunch Secret Decoder ring) –

...with said ring going straight through his upper lip.

This group of guys (apparently there were six of them) then made off.

…at which point, I somehow recover…pull myself to my feet and – being of no mind and still blacked outgive chase.

This man, Guy, is watching all of this from the other side of the street…chases me down, stopping me from beating these thugs senseless using my face and other soft parts.

I believe he ended up saving my life.

Had I been wearing a Bruins jersey, I’m not so sure that this ending would have been the same (“No! Monsieur...don’t chase the…oh…Boston, eh? Go die, peasant!”)

Guy – if you’re reading this, may I say, “Gracias” (French, Spanish…I can’t understand either so it doesn’t matter).

At the hospital I discover that my nose is broken in three places – my septum completely mashed from one side to the other.

There is clear evidence of this all over my green shirt and acid washed jeans in the form of oodles and oodles of blood.

..and this is why I snore.

Anyway, luckily we’re all still REALLY REALLY REALLY hammered…and we’re not feeling ANY of our pain.

In fact, my buddy with the cut in his lip is playing with it…sticking his tongue out through it trying to make us laugh…and my other friend with his head bandaged and covered in blood is adamant that the nurse thinks he’s hot.

Bloody-head-buddy, you’re not looking hot and, lip-buddy, you’re F*CKING GROSSING ME OUT.

After a few hours we decide to cut bait and drive back home.

We stop a few times to sleep and vomit…luckily, not all at once.

We pull back into town at about 9 a.m.

“Hey,” I say to myself…”Bank is open.”

..and so..I walk back into my bank to get my American cash back…

..in the same clothes I was wearing not 18 hours previous…

…except this time…they’re completely covered in dried blood…my head is bandaged...and I'm limping...

..and wouldn’t you know it…

...I approach the same, hot, teller...

…she looks horrified as I straddle up to her, hand over my Canadian money and say:

“I’d like this changed back to American…please.”

Ow, Canada.


Elise said...

You poor thing... Bad Candian beat you up!

The moral of this story is to take care of your nose because women get frustrated when they can't sleep...

Anonymous said...

I thought Canada was supposed to be a safe country :)

I love that blame Canada song btw...class!

Anonymous said...

Alcohol makes you think you are tough huh? Guess you learned your lesson the hard way that it also makes you stupid as hell!

I bet you $100 they beat you up because you were wearing those gay ass acid washed jeans.

Not too sure how you got the acid washed jeans though because I could have sworn that back in the 80's they didn't sell those in the toddler section.

prin said...

LOL!! You'll never get over your Canadian beating, eh? I'll never hear the end of it.

I bet you $100 that they were American tourists. :D

Ok, no, I don't bet that. There are a lot of tuff guys in Montreal, unfortunately.

Just don't ask them if they have a problem, ok? The answer is obvious.

On behalf of the sane Montrealers (even though I'm not sure they'd want me to speak for them), sorry. Again. :D

Tequila Mockingbird said...

i actually went to minnesota for a spring break (this was to visit lawyerman, and he moved me up after my semester was done).

so i take it you didnt get any action from the hot bank teller? you should've told her your man-fluids taste like maple syryp... it gets 'em every time!

[Un]Censored said...

LMAO, Nice. This is why I read your blog every day. You understand the true meaning of "blame Canada".


You have been tagged to be the recipient of an award. For more details, visit:

Smile and keep blogging :)



Oh, and by the way, don't worry, this one doesn't have flowers on it :)

Forrest Proper said...

Great story! It's always interesting to hear about how people met the person they ended up marrying...

Anonymous said...

Haha, awesome story! How can your wife possibly be upset with your snoring, knowing what you went through? Unless it's really really loud snoring. Then she is totally justified.

Moooooog35 said...

Nah, Colonel.

That little gem is here:


Baba Doodlius said...

Dude, you intentionally went to the country that invented hockey - basically a fistfight on ice - to get drunk? *Of course* you got beat up!

Anonymous said...

Jesus Christ!! Well, the only thing that could have made this story any better was if you had told us that the bank teller is now your wife.

Diva said...

Those damn canucks, eh?

This story made me sad for you :(

Anyhoo, tell your wife she's not alone. My fella snores so loud the paint comes off the walls periodically.

Hungry Mother said...

I spent 6 weeks studying French at LaValle University in Quebec City in the summer of 1993. I loved the city and the province except for Montreal. I would never have walked around Montreal at night the way I walked around Quebec City, Trois Rivieres, Riviere du Loup, and the other places we went.

The Real Mother Hen said...

Chances of one getting beaten up in Canada is way less than seeing a polar bear!
You must be very lucky!
Now, would you consider plastic surgery?

Malach the Merciless said...


Anonymous said...

hey Mooog---great post! This is a most excellent story. I heart Canada, but then again, I dont recall alcohol ever opening my mouth for me there. Its done that in Seattle, but not Canada.

Polgara said...

I'm the snorer at my house, drives husband mad but having read your post am glad for the first time ever that i was BORN a snorer and didnt become one!

Elise said...

Its me again...

I'm presenting you with an award.

Oh and tagging you with a meme.

Check out my blog for details x

AngryMan said...

I snore at times and Wifey will push me to wake me up. When she commits assault late at night, I usually deserve it, but one night I didn't do anything and still got attacked.
I was asleep like normal and then I opened my eyes to see Wifey's hand come slamming down on my chest for no reason at all! She just hit me in the chest and then turned over and continued sleeping! She never even fucking woke up and had no recollection of it the next day. Fucking awful.

Juniper said...

Just how drunk were you? I'm a woman and live in Montreal. I never ever had a problem! But at 3 am when the bars are closed, everyone is now on the street and drunk out of their mind, if you say the wrong thing you can have a bad situation! Sorry to hear you had such a bad experience.

HeyJoe said...

Pretty brutal tale, but nice to still discover new droppings of mental poo.

Gauche said...

I am both horrified and amused that your little ass got up and ran after them like the good American man that you are. Well done. but please, for the love of all that is holy, don't do it again. I'd be sad if you died in Canada.


quite a tale and yet another reason for short guys to keep their mouths shut

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