I went to Mardi Gras in NOLA this year for the first time, and it was a complete shitshow – definitely better than the last time I visited D in NOLA, when I got held up at gunpoint by two 17-year-old white boys wearing red bandanas while blackout D just left me behind and stumbled away from the muggers, slurring at them to “go fuck themselves” when they demanded our purses. In the 7 days that I was in NOLA, I didn’t get mugged or held up at gunpoint, so this was already two steps in the right direction.
Given this was my first Mardi Gras, D had laid down the ground rules for me upon my arrival. Or rather, just one big #1 Mardi Gras rule: DON’T GET ARRESTED. Because if you do, we won’t be able to bail you out until the following Wednesday, and then you’ll miss your flight.
That didn’t sound too bad, but then when D listed out what all would get you arrested in NOLA, I got a bit nervous:
- Don’t pee in public – I did have a history of peeing in public places, both indoor and outdoor
- Don’t antagonize cops – would be difficult considering I think all cops should die and go to hell
- Don’t walk around naked – confused since I thought that was the whole point of Mardi Gras
Apparently, though, there were a whole slew of things that would NOT get you in any sort of trouble in NOLA:
- Drinking in public out of an open container
- Being very obviously blackout in public, in restaurants, and in bars
- Littering openly everywhere you go
With these rules in mind, I set out to embark on my adventure.
The first night I got in, KY took me to his “favorite restaurant in NOLA.” Ironically, it was a Japanese restaurant, although he did claim he didn’t just take me there just because I was Japanese. Apparently it really was his favorite spot in NOLA, and the minute I walked into this weird hole-in-the-wall restaurant/bar, I knew why.
First, the owner is this young Japanese chick who plays one of those weird Japanese instruments and sings traditional Japanese folk songs in a really loud, high-pitched, really Asian voice. Second and more interestingly, they’re playing this creepy samurai era disturbing porn in black-and-white up on their brick wall. The story went something like this, and KY had it all memorized:
This young Japanese girl was widowed and living with her mother-in-law, and it was so hot during the summer time that they always slept next to each other naked; then the daughter started banging her dead husband’s best friend (nothing wrong with that); then the mother-in-law found out about the affair and got really angry and jealous because she wanted to bang him too, so she killed a samurai and crafted this demon samurai scarecrow and planted it in the middle of the fields and told her daughter-in-law that if she had sex in the fields, the demon samurai would come get her.
This story sounded eerily familiar……………
Anyway, it was some quality porn. Probably the same porn my grandparents used to watch.
The second night (Wed) was Day 1 parade, where I learned that you could catch hundreds and hundreds of beads off the floats without flashing a single tit. Wed was low key in that there were actually children out at the nighttime parades, and that was apparently allowed (hate).
Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday were 6 straight days of waking up at 8am to drink, drinking all morning, eating Popeye’s for lunch, drinking all afternoon, eating Popeye’s for dinner, then drinking all night until blackout. Repeat X 5.
I’m jk. We only ate Popeye’s 4 times during my trip. Here’s what other incred meals I consumed:
My poorest performance was on Friday, when D and I went to Pat O’s and chugged two hurricanes before noon way too quickly, ran into Bradie James of the Dallas Cowboys, blacked out as I walked into Port of Call, then tried to rally for nighttime parades, blacked out again at Miss Mae’s, threw up my pink hurricanes in their bathroom, got put into a cab by D, then threw up some more pink hurricane in D’s bathroom. Then threw up yellow bile the next morning.
Sunday was Mad Dog Sunday, when we drank Mad Dogs all day on A’s porch that’s right along the parade route and I flabongoed a Mardi Gras Bud Light.
That night we went to the Boot, where the bouncer took one look at D’s ID and goes, “1983…? What are you, 30?” D took one look at him, punched his balls, and yelled “28 YOU ASSHOLE,” and we left the Boot to go to Bruno’s, where they were friendlier towards the ’83 crowd.
I can’t really remember the rest of the week as the 6 straight days of raging have really started to blur together in my memory. All I remember is, it was the best time of my life, my friend D can drink any guy under the table and that is why she is my friend and why I am the most proud of her, at one of the parades I got an entire bag of beads thrown directly into my face which left a red splotch on my forehead for the next 24 hours, OH! and I caught a coconut at my first ZULU parade ever!!!!!!!!!!!!!!