It was a wild three day bachelor party weekend in the city of Montreal. As visitors from the United States, we were looking forward to ending our extravaganza with some local pub fare, witty conversation and some playoff hockey on a big screen. Little did I know I would experience the most painfully uncomfortable five minutes of my life.
As we climb up the vast amount of stairs to finally enter the bar, it was dead silent. About as quiet as someone that just got a rub and tug NuRu massage. The smell was the equivalent of a hairy taint smothered in poutine and Schwartz smoked meat.
Even a hello would have sufficed to keep us to stay, but after being ignored for two minutes despite being literally the only people at the bar, we decided to leave.
Upon our departure, a Ray Rice-like strike to the bar top was thrown by the bartender along with some foul profanity. I've never been more scared in my entire life. We ran out of the bar, walked back to the hotel and ended up leaving that night instead of sleeping and leaving the following morning. To say our trip ended on a poor note would be and understatement.