by Mike
Rank | April 15, 2003
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My beads didn't
go well with this shirt, so I had to take
them off.
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Learn about the historical sights in New
Orleans. I can't tell you about any of them
for obvious reasons.
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When I told people I was going down to New Orleans
for a weekend bachelor party, they’d give me a look
of disappointment and lament “It’s too bad you couldn’t
have been down there for Mardi Gras”. No, it wasn’t.
This was to be my weekend to make up for all the Spring
Breaks I never had, the partying I’d missed out from
working full time since I was seventeen. As crazy
as Mardi Gras may be, the weekend was more than crazy
enough. The following is an abbreviated account of
a few of the highlights I’ve pieced together with
some vague memories and six rolls of film. Anyone
who was there, feel free to correct me here.
PROLOGUE
I planned to start the trip off with a good nights sleep in order to maximize my strength for the weekend. Instead I stayed up with friends playing poker, at one point tackling a small Asian guy off of his chair and slamming him into the floor for reasons that are still unknown to everyone who witnessed the spectacle. About 3:30 AM, I realized my flight was in two and a half hours, so I showered quickly, threw some clothes in a duffle bag and bolted to the airport, falling asleep as soon as I got on the plane.
DAY 1
It was about two by the time we had all met up and hit Bourbon Street. In order to maintain my status as a cultural connoisseur, I made sure to partake of all local traditions by grabbing a plate of Jambalaya, a couple of beers and then wandered aimlessly to ogle women. We bounced from several bars, including one where I led everyone to a round of Mint Juleps, a southern delicacy made by crushing mint leaves in a glass, then adding soda and bourbon. You can get the same experience at home by filling your mouth with a pack of breath mints, grass clippings and a shot of whiskey.
Having two of these and a couple beers and a “Hand
Grenade” probably wasn’t the best idea, nor was dancing
frantically to a band at the “Krazy Korner”.
But I did; the music was bumping and the drunken women
were dancing, so how could I resist? After performing
a few of my few signature moves, including a couple
back spins the “donkey smack” and some swing dancing
moves. I even managed to belt out some tunes when
the singer came by with the microphone, much to the
dismay of everyone within earshot. Then I went and
re-painted the restroom with Jambalaya and Mint Julep.
Eventually we decided to stumble down to Razoo’s, where there wasn’t much of anything going on. So we proceeded to head out to the dance floor and shake around aimlessly. I entertained myself by harassing a guy much larger than myself, sliding up to him whenever he was dancing and asking interested in him. He freaked out, as I imagine I would if I was sober and in his shoes. Like that was going to stop me.
We ended up later at a strip club where all of the strippers appeared to be hiding, so I grabbed a handful of free passes from behind the counter and began passing them out outside. There was already a guy out there who was actually being paid to do that and when he asked what I was doing, I quoted Bible verses at him. After a series of failures, I managed to convince a homeless guy that there were soft chairs inside he could sleep on. One of my friends later told me that the guy was harassing the dancers, screaming, ”They’re fake! Those are fake!”
We finished up the night and most of the morning at the casino. While playing video poker, I tried out pickup lines on an older woman next to me. Her son, who was old enough to be my dad, was a bit dismayed. Stupid kids, always ruining my action.
DAY 2
After lunch and a couple Hurricanes with some of the other guys that had come down, we headed up to the balcony of “Tropical Isle” and proceeded to spend the afternoon yelling at people. Only later did we realize this is a night activity, as the day crowd is not nearly as receptive to “showing their tits”. The only fruits of our labor was a drunken hippy who flipped us off and called us names and a retarded guy who lifted his shirt, then spent the next half an hour eyeing us from across the street. Somehow it digressed into finding other creative opportunities for getting mammals to expose themselves, such as:
To a Dog: SHOW US YOUR TAIL!
To a Baby: SHOW US YOUR BOTTLE!
To an amputee in a wheelchair: SHOW US YOUR LEGS!
We had talked about taking a break and maybe catching
a nap before the other guys arrived at 10PM. I don’t
recall taking a break. I do recall running across
the street to meet a family whose daughter we’d been
hollering at.
Her mom pulled her behind her and said I could have
my choice of anyone in the group but her. I
sized up the group, walked over to the grizzled, bearded
guy wearing a Harley shirt and ran my hand down his
arm while raising my eyebrows. Even now, I could swear
I saw steam coming from his ears as his wife grabbed
him, laughing and yelling “Oh no you don’t! This one’s
mine!” I asked her if they’d ever heard of a “Ménage
e twa”? They hadn’t.
I think some of the guys left for a nap and others
just crapped out for the night. But before I knew
it, the bachelor had arrived with his entourage and
it was time to hit the town.  Once
we had the man of the hour outfitted with a fuzzy
hat and beads, we paraded him up Bourbon Street to
the strip club we’d been in the previous night. It
was packed now and the free passes I’d swiped the
night before came in handy. But my attention was focused
on a midget who was working the door. I can see an
oversized pair of breasts anytime I look in the mirror;
chilling with a midget is much cooler.
DAY 3
Although I didn’t remember walking home, I did snap some pictures of Jeff and myself with some Marines outside the casino, then some other pictures of myself running around the hotel room in my underwear , jumping on anyone who was trying to sleep. I felt terrible when I finally woke up and could hardly stomach my buffet lunch back at the casino. We took the afternoon to walk down by the river and enjoy some of the live music. Even better than the bands was the Oyster eating contest, where a number of contestants with names like “Crazy Legs” were competing to see if they could beat the previous record of a dozen oysters in ten minutes. We reveled at these behemoths who sauntered onto the stage, grown men proudly wearing overalls and boasting of their achievements of being able to consume a pound and a half of butter in one sitting. By the contests end, the winner managed to eat eighteen dozen of the crustaceans.
We wandered the streets for the afternoon and after assessing our losses from the previous evening, decided to hit up the free happy hour back at our hotel. Once there I procured the fuzzy hat from the bachelor, which seemed to be an irresistible chick magnet the previous night. Just as Frosty came to life with his hat, I blossomed under this fuzzy piece of happiness and people took notice. Some women commented on the accessory and I offered them an invite somewhere along the lines of “Why don’t you sit your fine ass down and share a bowl of trail mix with a real man”. They politely declined as they had a bachelorette party to get back to, which I erroneously took as an invite to go sit with them. But they let me sit with them while they pondered the reasons why their husbands and children insist on urinating outdoors. I don’t think I want to know what I did or said to start that conversation.
Judging from the number of photos I later developed,
it’s evident I spent the better part of the rest of
the evening on the balcony trying to get a shot of
any of the numerous girls pulling their tops off for
some beads. Statistically speaking, you will have
to take eight shots before you obtain one that’s something
more than a girl frantically pulling her top back
on.  Downstairs
later that evening, a woman insisted on getting a
set of beads from around my neck. Rather than show
me her breasts to earn them, she grabbed my camera,
pulled her shirt out and snapped a shot. When she
attempted to grab some beads for her reward, I held
up an empty roll of film and told her she didn’t get
her prize until I was sure it was worth my while.
The agreement was that I’d post them online, she could
e-mail me her address and then I’d send her the necklace.
Here’s the photo; I’m keeping the beads.
It was hard to keep track of all my friends, as they would be in a different spot of the bar talking to a different set of girls every time I turned around. Respecting my role as the perpetual wing man, I made every effort to get a picture with them and the ladies, insisting the women give them a kiss on the cheek for the photo. After a while I didn’t even bother opening the lens, I just pointed and made a clicking sound with my mouth. Only a few girls pointed out that the camera wasn’t on; the rest didn’t want to have to sit through another picture. When one group seemed reluctant to pose with one of us, I insisted that they celebrate his recovery from Colon Cancer. They didn’t believe me, but posed anyway.
It’s amazing how quickly the time passed and I realized it was almost 3am, just three hours before my flight. After a quick shower at the hotel, I caught a gypsy cab to the airport. The cabdriver was from Bosnia and we had what I probably misinterpreted as a meaningful discussion about the war and his sentiments towards the U.S. While I don’t remember exactly why he said he loved this country, I can vaguely remember it involved him having members of his family and friends die when he was a teenager. It was a low note to end the trip on, but a reminder of how fortunate I am to be the Mike. I think I thought about that as I passed out on the plane
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