Poop 2009 Vol 6: A Weekend in NOLA

So, I’m still suffering through the project from Hell and it’s really hard to find time to write and post the poop. I apologize for slacking on my doodies; with any luck this current project will end soon and I’ll be able to run my stories earlier in the week. All this Friday posting is destroying my inner calendar and making me lose track of time very badly. I hate to talk about work outside of the office, but I have to say that this past week has found me closer to murder than ever in my life (or at least the last month). Seriously, I’m performing slope stability analyses using a software that is very new to me and the fact that I didn’t get the mentor/instruction that I was promised just makes the whole thing incredibly frustrating. As bad as that is, it’s not enough to contemplate exterminating someone. Now, teaching yourself to do this crap, getting it done, and then having someone tell you that the format is a little off causing you to have to start from scratch on the shit that you just spent your whole week and weekend doing? That’s the kinda thing that makes you consider going Dexter on someone’s ass. OK the intro monologue is running long and heavy on work (I promised myself I wouldn’t) so let’s just move onto our brief but eventful trip to the Crescent City. As always, there’s lots to tell and most of it is ridiculous.

Weekly Words of Wisdom
Her husband said that her boobs are probably wind-burned.
Random Mardi Gras-er recounting her beady exploits at our hotel
I would like to live forever, because we should not live forever, because if we were ever supposed to live forever, then we would live forever, but we cannot live forever, which is why I would not live forever.
-Miss Alabama 1994

An Interesting New Tactic for Soliciting Charity
I swear that New Orleans has the most panhandlers of any city in America and for the most part, they are pretty tolerable; in many cases downright entertaining. It’s almost as if playing an instrument, selling art, or doing some other sort of performance is an actual career choice in the Crescent City, and it often times adds a little bit of charm to the place. Think about when you go to get beignets at Café Du Monde. Would it really be the same without some impromptu musical performance by a French quarter ensemble? Well, as the poop isn’t much of a forum for discussing class and culture, I’d like to quickly touch on a new bizarre but incredibly effective method of getting handouts that could only come from NOLA.

After Ashley’s class ended for the day, we decided to meet some friends and take a quick tour around the quarter which was in the early stages of Mardi Gras. We came upon a pitiful looking guy sitting on the street with an equally pitiful dog licking water that was dripping from a faucet on the side of a building. I walked by trying not to look, and Ashley of course said she wished she had some money to give to the dog. Well being the good Samaritan that I am, I gave the guy a dollar, and as I did so, the dog lurched forward and grabbed hold of my jeans just a bit. My initial response was that this dog had tried to bite me and the guy seeing a look of “WTF, brah?” quickly got up to reassure me that his dog was friendly and not a biter. As he stood up the bitch quickly started to hump the shiz out of his leg. This was altogether weird since the dog was a female…that and you never expect to see a man getting humped by a dog in public. The guy casually pushed the dog off of him as we watched and tried not to laugh. The man went to tell us that his dog only has two commands; one for nice folks and another for mean folks. Upon telling us the first command, “biscuit” the dog recommenced the leg love, and again we fought back laughter as the man pried loose the love grip of his faithful and apparently horny companion. The guy then went on to tell us that the attack command was “cookie” and predictably, the dog once again began thrusting away at the dirty knees of her master. This time the man just kept right on talking as if nothing was happening and we quickly said good luck to the street dweller and escaped to our hotel.

The Mardi Gras Hath Cometh
After the incident with the horny hound dog, Ashley decided to call it a night so as to be prepared for the next day’s class and test. Since I wasn’t ready to hit the sack, I took the opportunity to meet up with a few college buddies from NOLA. Rather than wait on my friends to meet me at the hotel, I just took off down Bourbon and it wasn’t but about 30 seconds before I saw my first Bourbon Street Barter of the year take place. Guys on balconies were hanging over the rails of their perches and scouring the crowd for any woman depraved enough to unleash the baby-feeders for plastic beads. It’s just another Saturday night on Bourbon really, but since Mardi Gras had technically started, there was slightly more open air areolas gracing the pickled masses. After meeting up with Dave, we bar hopped until I decided I’d had enough (also I didn’t want to be responsible for waking up the wife).

I stopped for a quick late night bite at Yo Mamma’s: home of the greasiest burger I’ve ever seen. The quick bite went a bit longer than I had hoped, but I got to meet a really interesting old dude and hear some crazy ass stuff. The guy looked to be at least 70 and he was wearing a leather biker jacket and boasted an earring and a white pony tail. For an old guy he was spitting some good game at the super skanky waitresses and then whipped out a picture of a woman he claimed to be his wife. If I had to guess, I’d say he stole the photo from a strip club since it was a shot of a 20-something chick in a thong. He stumbled drunkenly through a few more anecdotes involving getting drunk and giving out free love before my burger finally arrived and I began having second thoughts about eating a grease ball piled high with a softball-sized mound of chopped bacon at 1 AM. I would pay dearly the next morning, but, I sure didn’t have any complaints at the time.

A Day in The Quarter
On Sunday, Ashley went to conquer her class and I went to kill the 6 hours between check-out and the end of the class. I ended up walking for hours observing the freak show that is much of the quarter denizens. I saw more douche bags with decent looking girls than ever before in my life, or at least since my last trip to NOLA. Eventually, I met up with Brad who was in town for a wedding, and like me looking to kill some time on Sunday. Together we set off to find food, a quiet Sunday Bar, and some entertainment. We didn’t go very far before we heard the blaring melange of Beyonce squawling about putting a ring on it. We both stopped to see where it was coming from, expecting to see a ghetto sled bearing down on us. Oddly, there were no cars except for the vacant ones parked along the road. Then we noticed a woman pushing a stroller down the opposite sidewalk. At this point I knew what I was witnessing, but not entirely sure I believed it. It was a ghetto fabulous family walking through the quarter and evidently these folks were teaching their baby that even as a youngster, it’s important to soup up your ride and bump it like the day is long.

Brad and I, having given up on humanity stopped in Pirate’s Alley for a brew before heading to the Jackson Square Art gallery. Technically it’s just a bunch of people selling junk on the sidewalk, but some of the artists down there are damn good. Of course, there are some “artists” down there that aren’t very good at all. I would go so far as to say they probably get their works from a sweat shop filled with mentally retarded kids finger painting 12 hours a day. I picked up a really nice painting for pretty cheap and then headed off to retrieve the little lady from her class and carry her home to the Rouge.

Katrina, I Think You Missed a Spot
On the way out of town Ashley suggested we take the shortest route to the interstate rather than drive out past the Super Dome; a logical, and intelligent idea, right? Not this past Sunday, my friends. We unknowingly stumbled upon what was apparently the aftermath of a ghetto Mardi Gras Parade, but could be more accurately described as a shooting waiting to happen. Traffic was not going anywhere fast (unless you were riding one of the hundreds of crotch rockets passing between the stopped cars) and we got plenty of time to see where all those taxes are going. Apparently, we, the employed, taxpaying people of America own a lot of Caddies and Audis we don’t know about. We also saw a large assortment of weaves, hooker dresses, and bastard children. Now I know how it felt to be in the Super Dome a few Augusts back. Thankfully, we passed through the hood unkilled-raped-shot-stabbed and escaped the rampant illegal activity that was taking place right in front of the cops who were clearly there only so nobody would sue the city for not controlling the masses in the event of a random shooting.

I Almost forgot
Thankfully Ashley proof-read this week's poop (holy makerel there were some typos) and reminded me of a couple of ladies we saw in the elevator of our hotel in NOLA. They were decked out in their best "I'm a Mardi Gras Tourist, come rape-rob-murder me" constumes and immediately began chastizing the other people in the elevator for not being festive. One guy, trying to be friendly told them they looked they had a good time, promting the lady nearest me to inform us of how hard she had worked for her beads. Her friend chimed in suggesting that there may be some significant wind burning on their titties. That comment didn't seem to bother the first lady who went on to say that her husband told her "if he wanted pancakes, he'd have gone to Denny's." It was all a fantastic TMI moment, but to me it's just another nugget to add to the poop.

Well kids, I’ve gotta run and get this thing up (she said) Next week will be fun and I promise to have a good write-up about Richard’s recent run on Jeopardy.

Y’all have a good safe week.