“Rando, Cock Sando!”
This became the catch phrase of the weekend, which most likely is directly related to the amount of sleep we all got throughout our bachelorette weekend in New Orleans. It may also have had something to do with the fact that Shaunna and Kate spent the night before the trip high off Goo Gone fumes while taking sticky labels off tiny vodka bottles for Shaunna and Andrew’s wedding favors. At some point, Andrew said ‘cock sando’ followed by ‘butt hair’ and ‘dingleberry’ throwing the group into a fit of high laughter. My sick ass unfortunately arrived too late for the huffing party since I’d been in strep quarantine for two days. And, since I felt like ass for most of those two days, this caused me to stay up far too late Friday night packing making Saturday’s 4:30 a.m. wake up call even more difficult . Balls.
Theeeeen, I got to the airport and realized I’d forgotten the most important thing in order to not be an asshole on the trip – my motherfucking Z-Pak. Good thing Andrew’s dad is a doctor and called in another prescription to the New Orleans Walgreens under Shaunna’s name, except I dropped $50 on shit I already had since I couldn’t use my insurance. Right then I was going, ‘is this an omen for the rest of the trip?’
The Historic French Market Inn is old as shit and I'm pretty sure I saw ghosts in the windows while we walked through the courtyard to our room. Our room was big and updated, but it looked like Tim the Tool Man Taylor had done most of the remodeling with his plastic Fisher Price tool set. I forgot to take a picture of it, but there was definitely one 2-foot by 1-foot oval mirror in the entire room...for three girls...at least one of them moderately high maintenance. That was interesting.
But far more interesting was the drunk as piss old couple next door to us who smoked pot and screamed and knocked on our door then ran away and boned a lot in the middle of the day.
No complaints really, just observations. I’d stay there again especially since it was close to everything. Just remember to pack a mirror if you’re even slightly interested in what you look like during your stay.
Blinky dicks – a Midwest thang?
When Shaunna was in the shower Saturday night, Kate and I made a bachelorette explode in our room. While I passed out on the floor trying to blow up giant dick balloons, Kate hung banners and beads from the chandeliers.
By the way, what’s up with the “dicks galore” theme of bachelorette parties? I mean, shit, I’ve sipped drinks through dick straws, sucked on dick suckers, carried a giant, 4-foot blow up dick through Westport, played ring toss with a dick, have been fed Jell-o out of a dick mold and even came face-to-face with a real live dick when a man stripper picked me out of the crowd at a bachelorette party and assaulted me with his bright orange banana hammock while I held back vomit.
It’s pretty ricockulous, but for some reason, we keep going with it, which is why I busted out my culinary skills – a.k.a. Pillsbury sugar cookie dough in a tube along with my slight knowledge of the male anatomy – and made dick cookies complete with pink icing and sprinkles. In the spirit of Mardi Gras in New Orleans, I also threw in some boobies for an extra good time.
Since I was pretty sure I was an expert at dick and boob shaping, I didn’t use a cookie cutter resulting in blobs of nothing and elephant man, deformed dicks and lopsided, saggy grandma tits. Who the hell put me in charge of something involving the kitchen?
However the grand finale was the veil. We had all been joking about making Shaunna wear blinky dicks on a veil for several weeks except the only person who actually thought it was a joke was Shaunna.
So here we were prancing down Bourbon Street and every fifth person would stop to gawk at the blinking, light up dicks on Shaunna’s veil, then say, “what are those?” Each time I would throw up my hands and yell, “BLINKY DICKS!” Then they’d stare at me like I had Tourette’s for about 30 seconds before it would all click in their drunk heads. Are we Kansas Citians the only ones who partake in the “dicks galore” theme? Because I highly doubt it.
My other favorite statements of the night:
- “Are you getting married?”
Nope, just totally love the fashion statement blinky dicks on a white veil make.
- “Don’t do it!” (Usually screamed by short, rat-like man with missing teeth.)
Well, I’m not marrying you, so I think I’ll go ahead and go through with it.
And then there's this guy:
However, I like what I captured in the background slightly better.
Aaaand this guy:
Who was extremely disappointed we weren't carrying around a dildo for him to play with. Oh frat boys...how I don't miss thee...
Calling all whores and wannabe whores, I’ve found your new home. Now I sound like an old prude bitch here, but seriously, when did Bourbon Street become nothing but titty bars? I mean, I know they were always there, but it seemed to be overloaded this visit. And how in the hell can they staff all those places? I realize the economy is in the shitter, but can’t these chicks waitress or tend bar for just as many tips and maintain a little dignity? The job situation is not so bad that we all must wander around naked to survive.
At one point we walked past Larry Flint’s Ho Bag House and several of them were on the balcony above us with their legs draped over the railings. I was all, “yep, I totally just saw that one’s hoo ha and if her syphilis drops down on my head, I’m gonna be PISSED.”
Titty bar or not, the whore-ness was all around. Of course there was the typical boobs for beads thing. I nearly got my eye poked out by nipples at least six times. Little girls, perhaps under 18, were wearing shirts as dresses, then getting mad because guys would yell stuff at them and play grab ass. I’m like, ‘dude, I can see the bottom of your butt cheeks. I kinda wanna grab at you. At least go inside one of these titty bars and make these guys pay for it. Right now you’re giving it all away for free.’
Some chick Sunday night apparently forgot her shirt and rocked out with a band on stage at some bar with just her black strapless bra and fat rolls to keep her warm. The vibe from the crowd was a mixture of pity and 'haha! oh god, I'm glad that's not me.'
Since the number of whores slinking around out numbered the non-whores, the three of us were constantly “tempted” by men dangling plastic beads in our faces as if they were diamonds. Oooo! Look how the plastic catches the light! It’s a known fact that I’m not a public boob flasher especially for beads. I’m not all conservative and weird about nudity, but I just feel I deserve a fair trade – a boob in exchange for a giant beer or a steak dinner perhaps? This shit’s not for free.
At one point, some dude molested all three of us on the dance floor at Razoo while we desperately tired to escape to the front stage where some MC lady plucked chicks off the dance floor disguising it as a “oh hey, you’re getting married, come party on this cool stage to celebrate,” but in reality it was probably more like, “oh, I see you're getting jean cock humped by our regulars Luis and Pedro, let me help you and your ass escape to higher ground.” As we walked out of the bar, I ended up punching the same guy off Kate as he rampantly tired to ass rape her through her clothes. Seriously dude, get a blow up doll.
Speaking of whores, last time I went to New Orleans, my underwear ended up on the wall of some bar called Utopia. This sounds far more whore-y than it actually was, but the point of mentioning it is we looked for the bar and it was gone! They turned it into something else, which means some homeless lady is sporting the fanciest bright green thong she has ever owned.
Dog in a shirt!
When we booked the trip we had no idea that the first day of Mardi Gras was that Friday meaning the French Quarter was a clusterfuck the whole time we were there. People must be crawling over each others heads on Fat Tuesday.
Literally everyone…and their dogs were out on Sunday afternoon for the dog parade, which apparently had a movie theme. I’ve never seen so many Pomeranians dressed as Batman chilling as they rolled down the street in tiny, homemade cardboard Batmobiles. Every time I see a dog wearing clothes, I feel the urge to yell, “dog in a shirt!” mainly because it’s completely stupid to put clothes on your dog unless it’s purely for entertainment value for a short period of time. I’m all, ‘your poor dog can’t even take a piss with that frilly pink dress on. Take it off before I smack you.’
We waded through the parade and piles of dog shit somehow to walk around Jackson Square and look at all the art. Kate and I both ended up buying New Orleans-y pieces from Stuart South.
Absinthe = Asshole
The Southern Comfort Cocktail Tour we went on last time we were in N.O. in Oct. 2004 left me quite intrigued with “The Green Fairy,” which is apparently supposed to make you hallucinate green fairies flying around among other things, so I made a request to go back to Pirates Alley Café and Absinthe Bar so I could actually try one this time.
We met a local there who seemed to know what he was doing because apparently you don’t just order “The Green Fairy,” you have to tell them what kind. He was nice enough to my dumb shit, Absinthe-retarded ass, to explain all of them so it actually sounded like I knew what I was talking about when I ordered the drinks. We watched the bartender pour the absinthe over the sugar cubes and light them on fire all excited to try it, then she handed them over and I kinda wanted to vomit. We nicknamed Kate’s “tequila asshole” because it smelled like tequila on top of the rancid licorice stench. We drank maybe half of them, then tapped out and demanded frozen Hurricanes to cover up the shitty taste the liquid green ass left in our mouths. Then, to top it off, I suffered through that damn drink and I didn’t hallucinate even one goddamn green fairy. Bullshit.
The bigger the better
Yes, in fact, those are beer bottles the size of wine bottles we’re holding – 64 ounces to be exact. We spied several men drinking them during one of the parades we stumbled upon, but no women and immediately decided they would be our final drinks of the trip...and they were...sort of.
They came with straws...but straws are for pussies.
Behold my six chins!
Three women carrying around beers bigger than your head attracted quite a bit of attention.
This guy got mad because he only had tiny ass pansy beers:
And this guy, Canadian Scott, hung out for a couple of drinks and about 50 million Jager Bombs:
Not only were these beers a delicious novelty, they also became a secret Jager Bomb stasher when I was pretty sure that if I had another one, I would projectile vomit across the bar and then have a seizure on the floor.
Then Shaunna took a picture with this fire hydrant because she thought it was a midget. And she barely had any of that absinthe dammit! Bitch.
This was the theme on Monday since the walk back to the hotel after giganto beer night was horrendously fuzzy and I woke up after three hours of sleep, still in my clothes and make-up, still drunk with less than 10 minutes to pack and get into a cab to go to the airport.
While Kate flung shit into my suitcase I wandered around the room aimlessly with slits for eyes trying not to barf. Like I said, it’s fuzzy so there’s a good possibility Kate and Shaunna dragged me by my hair to the lobby and stuffed my ass into the backseat of a waiting cab because somehow I ended up in one and I don't know how. I stole Shaunna’s pillow and listened to Kate and Shaunna’s drunken giggling and the cab driver, which in my drunken state I was sure was a little Italian dude who later turned out to be Indian, call himself “Dr. Love.”
After about 100 years of driving I sat straight up and said, “Oh SHIT! We gotta stop!” I’m like, listen Dr. Love or whatever the fuck your name is, you need to pull over at a bush so I can barf in it. Shaunna’s all, “but we’re pretty much at the airport,” and I’m like, “yes, but puke waits for no one. You can just tell it not to come!”
As we pull up to ticketing, I’m screaming, “Locate a trashcan. Locate a MOTHERFUCKING TRASH RECEPTACLE!” I fling myself out of the moving vehicle and make it to the nearest trash can just in time to shove my head in it and lose what’s left of giganto beer and Jager Bomb in my stomach while a lady about 50 feet away on a bench looks on and smiles as though this is a familiar and happy sight.
Apparently while my head was stuffed in the thankfully nearly empty trashcan, Dr. Love asked, “Is tired girl still in the cab?”
Then the girls answered, “No she’s over there puking in the trash can.”
The hangover lasted nearly the entire day. On the last flight home, boarding took 3,000 hours, the plane was sweltering, babies were crying and somebody’s ass exploded in front of me making it basically the worst scenario ever humanly possible for being hungover on a flight as if it wasn’t bad enough in regular conditions. My heavy breathing, which was nearly moaning when it came down to it signaled that there was a good chance I was going to vom again prompting the lady next to me to get up and move to sit by some dude she didn’t even know just to get away from me. Of course I also looked and smelled like a homeless person at that point too, so this may have also contributed to her decision. I was thankful though because the extra seat let me lay down and stopped the rising puke in my throat.
As soon as I got home, I took a hot shower, ate a cheeseburger the size of my ass, visited my crippled boyfriend and passed out only to wake the next morning still feeling as though a 652 pound woman had sat on my head. However, this is simply an indication that it was a successful bachelorette weekend in The Big Easy.
And, I’m going back in April. Pray for me…