Beer and strippers are in abundance in Montreal, where I visited last week (see my photo album), making it nine countries that I've been piss-drunk in during the last two months. (In a tenth, Belgium, I just pissed, at a rest stop between France and Holland.) You can also throw in five U.S. States. (A sixth, Connecticut, I just visited to shop.) I'm exhausted, my tank is on empty, and I think this might be the last trip report for awhile. So enjoy...

MONTREAL BEER FESTIVAL (Mondial de la Bière)
Nothing says hangover like mixing beers, so buying coupons for 4 oz. tastings of more than 300 beers was a little like ordering a headache. I bought 33 on Day 1, Wednesday. ("I'll have a severe migraine, please.") Each coupon cost $1 Canadian, which equates to about 75 cents American. For you non-math majors out there, that's $2.25 American for 12 ounces, assuming you stick with the one-coupon beer tastings. Most were 2 coupons, or $4.50 American for 12 ounces. You follow?

A particular bargain was a one-coupon tasting of a beer consisting of 10% alcohol, about twice that of American standards. If I'd had more than one, I'd probably have fallen asleep at our table earlier than 7 p.m., four hours after arrival. This never happens to me. Clearly a sign from god to lighten up on the gas for awhile.

This being a midweek day and the first of the event, which was to run till Sunday, the indoor/outdoor festival wasn't too crowded, except for maybe the adjacent kids' sandbox (pictured; gotta love it). So there was no wait at the more than 100 tasting booths, or the smoked meat booth or the deer jerky booth or the booth with the little hotties dressed as Swiss Misses. No wait, there was a crowd at that booth.

The next day I could hardly pass any beer through my system. I bought 13 coupons and ended up giving several to a couple of chicks I saw on the way out. I wasn't alone in my need to recharge. To quote my travel buddy: "I think the cure for my hangover is naked women." On to the strip clubs.

THE CANADIAN BALLET (Strippers de la Montréal)
To be honest, I'm not much of a strip-club guy. My experiences are limited to:

• Refereeing a strip-boxing match when I was 17 for $55, for which I was allowed to physically separate the topless fighters when the action stalled. For this, they rewarded me by throwing me into the ropes and punching me in the balls. I couldn't see my friends through the bright lights illuminating the ring, but I still hear their thunderous cackles in my head. City Lights in Yonkers, I will always love you!

• That night we made last call at Scores before construction had completely finished in the early 1990s. At first, I couldn't find my friend in the men's room, though I did pinpoint his whereabouts when I heard him retching in the toilet. Today you'd probably get shot for that. Or maybe they'd stick you with a $129,626 bill, as Scores did recently to a Bangladeshi national.

• One 1994 night in Syracuse when Nikki Knockers helped us celebrate a housemate's birthday. She squirted me with a water pistol and grabbed a dollar bill from my mouth by squeezing her bowling balls together. I escaped shortly before suffocation.

• Killing time between work and Knicks games in the mid 1990s at Billy Topless (formerly at Sixth Ave. and 24 Street). Now a pizza and bagels eatery, Billy's used to be a cover-free club with $4 beers and a penchant for hiring pregnant women with open sores. Needless to say I get my pizza and bagels elsewhere.

• A bachelor party at VIP Club (20 West 20th St.), my first real experience at an upscale place — "Cigars, sushi, cognac and more testify to the class of this topless bar," reads one online review — but check these numbers. One cover charge, two beers, two dances: $85. And for that I was pestered seemingly every minute for a dance. At $20 a pop, you can't say yes to everyone and not feel like a dope when you open your wallet the next day. I never felt comfortable, only hassled. But those women were fine.

And now the Montreal experience...

Tourists rave about the Montreal strip clubs for two reasons: the price per dance ($10 Canadian; roughly $7 American) and the, um, intimate nature of how they're executed. Most places have "full contact" rules, which is a little like the WWF, but without the back hair. Your newest girlfriend will escort you to a curtained-off booth and explain the rules: no touching her g-string, no kissing. The rest is up to you and your hands. In one club I went to, it was called "private touch." In America, we call it "molestation." I have a new term: "car wash." Which makes even more sense if her name is Mercedes.

In three nights we went to five clubs, of varying quality. The first club, on St. Catherine street, was a dump. For a $2 cover, a ubiquitous tuxedo-clad doorman seated us at the bar, which had a great view of an ugly, old barmaid, a few depressed dancers seated alone and some pretty decent hardcore porn on a TV. Classy joint. I thought about asking one girl for a dance, but I was afraid she was gonna kill herself in the booth. The next place wasn't much better. Butter is on my Atkins diet, but Butterface is not, so I saved my coin for Wednesday night.

The second night, we went to Chez Paree, one of the more upscale places, traditionally ranked second in the city to Club Super Sexe, and the girls were of much higher quality. For $10, the girls will dance naked in front of you or, for $5, take you to a VIP area, which was furnished with more private couches. One of the guys in the main room ordered a dance and just stared at some chick's crotch the whole time. It was hilarious. I almost tossed him a $5 to help him save at least a shred of dignity. I got a couple of dances from one hardbody, but I could hardly keep myself from giggling. She squeezed her breasts and threw them in my face, forcing me to look crosseyed at them. I just wanted to laugh at how stupid I must've looked.

Next we went to Downtown, which was a full-contact place with a $5 cover. This was where my friend hit the ATM not once, but twice. Obviously, full contact is the way to go. At one point, he was gone for nearly a half-hour. Turns out he bought seven straight dances from one girl, and got six more from her before the night was over. I asked them to be invited to their wedding. Even though the girls were pretty hot, none were pushy. Neither were the doormen or barmaids. So it was a more relaxing setting that what I am used to in the States. The guy had to make the first move, except for a couple of occasions when a girl sat next to me to chat when my friend was gone.

Thursday night we hit Club Kamasutra, which was comparable to Downtown in all aspects. Except the dances were $15, so I would rate Downtown as a better value. Except for the live sex. Some dude was going down on a stripper — and using a finger technique — in one of the not-so-private bungalows behind us. He was with a friend and another stripper for about an hour. I think that cost $800 between them, without drinks. Maybe it was worth it for them. Can't really see how.

Overall, the Canadian Ballet gets a thumbs up. My New York VIP experience ($85 American) would have cost $41 Canadian ($30 American) at Downtown, where they talk to you like a human being and not a wallet. Which is why I almost never go to strip clubs in NYC.

Other Notes:

• Your AL Champion New York Yankees: Did you know the Bombers are 11-1 this year when I am out of the country? Anyone got a place in Amsterdam for me to stay at in October?

• The Worst Sports Radio: Perhaps it gets worse than 990 AM in Montreal, but when you're only active team is the Expos, there's a lot of dead air. I really think I could start working for them tomorrow. Compare that to this hilarious take from Jim Rome on Smarty Jones' trainer comparing the horse to Muhammad Ali: "These people in the horse racing business are too much, they've actually convinced themselves that their horses are people? If these horses had as much pride, competitive spirit, self-awareness, and dignity, they wouldn't let midgets strap themselves to their backs, beat me with a stick and ride them around in circles all day long with a bunch of other midgets with sticks (Gary Stevens exempted, he�s an ass kicker) it's a freaking horse. A fast one, but a horse."