What do you get when you add a case of beer, a bunch of cheap plastic crap, and a swollen jaw? My Mardi Gras experience. Everybody loves the Mardi Gras holidays; after all, what’s not to love about it? It’s a school free holiday where king cake, beads, breasts and beer meet ignorant tourists who come down to New Orleans looking for a week of partying and some sweet southern lovin’.
From my experiences I can tell you that Mardi Gras can be a great time, but it can also be wildly unpredictable and tumultuous. The plan was that a couple of my friends and I would get off of work Saturday night, then leave for New Orleans early Sunday morning. When that Sunday morning rolled around, we were prepared.
It started off innocently enough, as I drank gallons of “party punch” on the way. We got to the parade route early, so we stumbled to our chairs and took a little “nap.”
After waking up to another twelve pack, I decided that I would wander down to Superior Grill and try to meet some of the lovely ladies there. Perhaps I would even grab a bite to eat, or at the very least three or four margaritas.
This became my mission, and to the chagrin of all my friends, I failed to inform them of my endeavor or bring my cell phone with me. A few hours and several drinks later, I was socializing with people I had never met in my life. I was on top of the world, but as with any Mardi Gras experience, it took one error in judgment to go wrong.
A few girls I had met at Superior told me about a party they were having a few blocks down. I went to Mardi Gras looking for lots of beads and hopefully a sexy Tulane girl or two, but I soon discovered that Bourbon Street was not where I was going to meet my future wife.
Not that I was looking for anything serious, but I was hoping that Harrah’s wouldn’t be the only place I’d have a little luck. However, I failed to remember an important rule: as the liquor quotient goes up, the intelligence quotient hits rock bottom.
Don’t get me wrong; I know that I’m no Casanova. Apparently, I thought that I would charm one of my new lady friends by offering her the opportunity to show me her breasts. Her boyfriend didn’t think that that was such a good idea, and expressed his displeasure by punching me squarely in the jaw. How rude! I promptly left this party.
I soon realized my friends were missing, and when I went to find them I ended up wandering St. Charles by myself. So it was back to Superior, where I had conveniently forgotten my wallet anyway. Thankfully the bartender there realized that he would soon have all of the money in it anyway, so he held it behind the bar. Luckily, I ran into an old friend who let me use his phone to annoy several of my pissed-off friends until they felt sorry enough to come get me.
To show my appreciation, I thought it would be a great idea to go downtown and have a nightcap. Three hours later, we found ourselves somewhere along the lakeshore in LaPlace, approximately twenty or so miles from downtown.
We decided that we had enough fun and that it was time to go home. We stopped at a gas station to fill up, and decided to take a nap. Some time later (I’m not sure how long because I was passed out, I mean, “sleeping”) a police officer stopped by to kindly inform us that we had left our lights on. What a nice guy; he didn’t even give us a ticket! He even used his flashlight test to decipher who was the best candidate to guide us back to Baton Rouge. Obviously, I wasn’t chosen to chauffeur us home.
My exciting affair with the magic and mystique that is Mardi Gras in New Orleans was quite an experience. From the vague memories and wild stories I was told, I’m sure that I had a blast. However, I’m thankful that this holiday only comes once a year because I’m not sure my liver or my bank account could handle any more than that.