Been to Mardi Gras in New Orleans a couple times. Nothing like it. At least I think remember liking it.
In the French Quarter there are no doors, no clocks, no rules. Bars sell buy-one-get-three beers. If you have a glass folks will just walk by and pour whatever they're drinking into whatever you're drinking. And ... you drink it. Then you drink some more until you pass out or the police horses remind you it's time to go home. Because, hey, it's Mardi Gras.
And today, it's Fat Tuesday.
One time some female acquaintances wanted to hang out of my hotel room and - as is the custom - greet people in the street below with a hello flash of flesh. Problem, my creaky old window wouldn't stay up so I propped it open. With a Bible. Is that wrong?
Another time I dumped my friend's Popeye's chicken dinner into the sink and packed my bags to leave town - even though we'd just arrived hours earlier. Who knows? Caution: Hurricanes make you crazy.
But I digress. Point is, tomorrow comes Lent.
As in, 40 days of self-denial. Uh-oh.
If you like this story, consider signing up for our email newsletters.
SHOW ME HOW
You have successfully signed up for your selected newsletter(s) - please keep an eye on your mailbox, we're movin' in!
Porn. Smoking. Alcohol. Using Terrell Owens' name in vain. Lots of candidates. The Mavs are giving up Josh Howard. The Rangers Tom Hicks. You get the picture.
But me? I'm going to go without watching the Olympics. Or the NFL. Yeah, the NFL.
Think that'll suffice and appease? Prolly not. Okay, seriously, I'm going to go cold turkey on 5-hour Energy. I think I'm addicted to the things and that ain't good. So if you see me snoozin' in the next couple weeks slam some school books on my desk and scream: "Lent!"
So what are y'all giving up for Lent? And the first smartass who says "reading your dumbass blog" gets smacked in the kisser with a strand of "used" beads, so watch it.