Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Worst. Mardi Gras. Ever.

Mardi Gras. It's the culmination of the carnival atmosphere created during the week between the Epiphany and Ash Wednesday. Just like last year, I'm sitting out of all the celebrations today. Two years ago, Jason and I had the worst Mardi Gras ever. It was so bad that I haven't gotten up the courage to tempt fate again.

We had both been having a particularly crappy week at this time back in 2008. The finer details are irrelevant at this point, but suffice it to say that we both felt like were were being crushed under the greasy black heel of fate and we were in the mood to turn things around. I had read about some Mardi Gras party about an hour north of us and we decided to go all out and party as heartily as possible. We dropped way too much money on beads, crowns and other spirited knickknacks and trudged North. Then, it began to rain. It was as if God had poured out the Heavens in an attempt to drown us. We pushed onward, determined that that while the elements might rain on our parade, we wouldn't let them flood us out.

Finally, we arrived, both of us in dire need of booze. We donned our Mardi Gras finery and headed into the bar. I had so many beads on me that they were absorbing my ambient heat. We were so anxious to get in, get warm and get a drink that we didn't immediately notice that the place was almost completely dead. There we were, decked out in crowns and beads staring dumbfounded at the bar. I don't think I ever felt so out of place. Not even in high school. But, yes! Salvation! The bartender was a hottie. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

The bartender sauntered up to us as she perkily exclaimed "Oh, how CUTE! You boys dressed up! Too bad nobody else did". I think I actually felt my heart sink down into my gut.

There was only one cure for this swirling vortex of humiliation that seemed to surround us at that moment. Jason and I looked at each other and said "Irish Car Bombs". It took several rounds to numb the pain, after which we stumbled out into the street to look for a more happening bar.

We fell into some other place where I was promptly accosted by some roided out muscle head for making a remark about the hotness of his girlfriend. I had personally meant it as a compliment, but my English-to-Dipshit translator must have gone offline after the fifth Irish Car Bomb for the muscle head charged at me like a drunken rhino. I began to look for a napkin on which to write my obituary. Just then, Jason body checked the oaf and pinned him up against the wall. I was still sure that we were going to die a horrible, painful, bloody death. I wondered if I could find a pen.

The bartender saw the commotion and ordered the bouncers to throw us out. "You can't throw us out! Because we're leaving this shithole!" Jason exclaimed proudly. And, so we left.

We found yet another bar and settled down in order to sober up. We admitted defeat and resolved to leave town before anything worse could happen. As we left, Fate kicked us in the balls again by flooding out the main road out of town. We would have to detour. We got lost and didn't make it home until several hours later.

When asked what I learned from this experience, the best I can ever offer is that I am content to leave Mardi Gras to the folks who actually give up stuff for lent. At least after a crappy Fat Tuesday, I can still go and have a steak the following Friday.

2 comments:

  1. look at you, startin up bar brawls!! hahahaha

    love the pic.. looks like those irish car bombs were working their magic on ya!

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  2. I've only instigated two bar brawls (that I can remember). The other one was back in 1997, and, once again, I was about to get destroyed by some guy three times my size. And, just like Mardi Gras incident, I got saved at the last minute.

    Don't think I've had an irish car bomb since my birthday. Jason, I'd say we're due.

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