by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR

A mere half-dozen Fridays remain until the most scrumptious bum in Montreal is crowned, or recognized, or rewarded or whatever, as determined by the Friday night crowd of the Millennium nightclub. The best butt (and it's pre-determined that it will be a female bum) will receive a chunky $5,000 and the second best gets two grand.

I showed up for the contest last Friday with Ian Huggins, who's become a local VIP by his popular Mtl Nights nightclub discussion forum Web site. In recent months it seems that our always lively nightclub scene has suddenly been extra-abuzz. Maybe it's a backlash against the anti-nightclub politicians who wanted to close the afterhours joints last year, but increasingly club cognoscenti are describing our island as a world nightclub Mecca.

Millennium isn't the slickest joint but it tries hard. It's a big space tucked at the end of a strip mall at Viau and Highway 40 and offers blitz-worthy open bar deals once you plunk down your entrance fee.

The contest wasn't on right away so I had some intimate nightclub yelling conversations and scoped the place, which features four cages where exhibitionists contort on platforms that rise and descend on hydraulic lifts. The women wear low-belted blue denim and white sleeveless cotton T-s. Guys wear running shoes.

One significant event - and one's criteria for significance changes inside a throbbing nightclub - occurred when a guy in a navy blue retro ski sweater and spiky blond hair walked in. Everybody mobbed him. It was the most enthusiastic greeting I'd seen since Grade 4, when a kid named Sudsy returned to visit his ex-schoolmates. As a new kid I had grown to despise Sudsy without ever meeting him for his massive popularity as I fought for mere acceptance, but Sudsy turned out to be a fantastic guy. So did the ski sweater dude. He was some sorta manager or greeter for the bar and won my heart by pouring free drinks.

But the question remains: why a butt competition here and now? Some experts consider the human bottom as an anthropological anachronism. It's believed that breasts represent a more sophisticated sexual stimulus. At least that's what it says in my yellowed copy of The Naked Ape, in which Desmond Morris argues that women only developed breasts as gaudy chest ornaments in an attempt to persuade men away from canine-style copulation. Desmond Morris notes that breast-intensive sex from on top is likelier to end in pregnancy and therefore continue the species.

To this I respond: just leave me alone, Desmond Morris.

Five women took the stage. The first was a fleshy brunette with glasses. She gyrated hips and flashed a peek of large white poo catchers. I voted for her old granny panties by clapping.

The MC, an incomprehensible old guy in a red Habs sweater, asked contestants their names, their jobs, and made them feel at ease by asking at what age and place they lost their virginity. He mumbled in what he might've thought to be English: "So where you da first time dey put the strawberry and da cherry on da boom boom in la banana?" One answered, "In a fruit store."

The second contestant, a thin, dark-haired girl, displayed her thong with great pride and panache. The third was a smallish plain Jane, who boasted of being a stripper. Her skanky ass display didn't impress the crowd.

The final two were peroxide cases determined to retain a piece of their dignity by not showing off their drawers. Although almost indistinguishable, one proved popular and the other not.

The thin, dark-haired girl and one of the blondes won. They'll return for the playoffs.

It was my first best-butt contest but surely not my last. Although it had drama, competition and showmanship, my only complaint was the lack of ethnic variety. Having a butt contest without a brown-skinned woman is like having a wine-tasting minus a guy with an accent or hosting a conference of heterosexual hairdressers. Something was definitely missing.

Comments? kgravy@openface.ca