Google Me

An Experiment in SEO

by Roxane Hudon

I was looking for some night clubs in Montreal, Canada, wanting to experience the Montreal nightlife, maybe get some club-bathroom-cocaine action, meet some rapper with blue eyes, hip hop girls, some Montreal douchebags or phylogenese singes, maybe end up with a broken cranium, having soresex with a broken toy, like Ken and Barbie naked with a penis.
There I was, just enjoying the Montreal Nightlife, which strangely reminded me of the Nightlife in New Brunswick, minding my own business, wondering: is Michael Cera Jewish? What role does french play in modern journalism? Anderson Cooper, wearing a black lame cape sitting across the bar with a eunuch whom he’d met on réseau contact, yelled: “Locomotion des singes! Films avec deux grand singes!”
These were not the answers I was looking for, he was speaking in code, like Clark Kent or Rob Ford at the Metro Bowl.  This Montreal night was getting crazy, I could smell the madness like a monkey, like crazy Keith Olbermann going nuts. I needed help. I called Peter Tardif, who was busy playing cards with Gaëlle Engelberts and Lina Harper. I called Shawn Thompson, who was obviously masturbating. Brad MacDonald, a Montreal writer, simply picked up the phone and shouted: “PUT YOUR DIAMONDS IN THE AIR!”And Oremun was nowhere to be found.  I was growing more and more frustrated. They had all obviously succumbed to the Montreal nightlife madness. I threw my drink at the wall and screamed: “BALLZ! BALLZ MONTREAL!” Someone must have an answer, a response to modern journalism! I’d have to find it on my own; I was, after all, Roxane Hudon, the Roxane Hudon, the wordpress Roxane from “Roxanne Hudon blog“! BALLZ! Nothing could stop me!
I immediately ran to the CBC and demanded to speak to Peter Mansbridge. High on Waterfield vertigo and dressed like an American Gangster, Peter Mansbridge was clearly in the early stages of dementia and the only words I could get out of him were “Fuck with dog draw!”I tried shaking him out of it: “You are Peter Mansbridge! The most respected Journalist in Canada!” He started to convulse: “BALLZ! I AM JAY-Z! I AM J-HOVA!
There was nothing to be done, the Montreal night was starting to wear me down. Just as I was starting to give up on humanity, a small singe bonobo waved at me and then ran away. I followed it, because at this point, I had nothing to lose and big brother said the housemates pack heat like the oven door. The monkey led me to an alley, where I found  my old mentor, Lloyd Robertson, dressed in a cloak, trying to reboot Earth, while eating donuts. Hardly breathing, he didn’t move as I approached, yet he knew I was there, waiting for an answer. After several seconds of silence, I kicked him in the ribs: “BALLZ! Give me a response to modern journalism!”He looked at me and whispered: “Diane Sawyer legs.” It puzzled me. I kicked him again: “Who is Diane Sawyer?“Lloyd Robertson died that day. I had to go on, I was, after all, Roxane Hudon, the Eleanor Rigby of journalism.
I went to the closest Montreal club and asked the bartender for pictures of Diane Sawyer. He only had old Clark Kent pictures. I moved on to the next bar: “Who is Diane Sawyer? I need photos of Diane Sawyer!” He laughed: “Why don’t you try réseau contact!” I had no time for jokes, especially the unfunny kind. I found a classy cigar joint and decided to take a whiskey break. The barman lit my Cohiba and leaned in: ” Who is j-hova rapper? What does Jay-Z mean when he says “blame Reagan for making me a monster?“I blew smoke in his face and leaned in: “Who is Diane Sawyer? Do you have Diane Sawyer photos? I looked in his eyes: complete Montreal nightlife madness. My questions had obviously provoked him. He jumped on the bar and yelled: “I am JAY-Z, GANGSTA!” I downed my whiskey, it was time to bounce. I was on my way out until I noticed a beautiful blonde in an elegant pant suit staring at me. My mouth dropped and the only thing I could say was: “Diane Sawyer legs.” I walked over to her and introduced myself: “Hi, I’m Roxane Hudon from Ballz zine Montreal. Are you Diane Sawyer? Do you know the modern response to journalism?” She whistled, stretched out her flawless Diane Sawyer legs and meowed: “сайвер“. This made no sense. “But this makes no sense, Diane Sawyer!” Madness was near, I could smell it again. I was just going to walk away, until she stopped me and said: “Maybe you’ll love me when I fade to black.”
Diane Sawyer was right. It was time to call it at night. After all, it was 3:30 a.m and I was hungry for some deep-fried poutine.