Damn. It's 7:30 a.m., and already I've got an important decision to make. To my right is a glass of water-surefire cure for last night's hardy Humphrey's adventure. It's a tempting proposition; but I'm a senior, and it's last call for my Mardi Gras career. To my right is a glass of orange juice: It is promptly spiked with Aristocrat Vodka. Ah, the unsung screwdriver, the ultimate Breakfast of Champions.
Trusty beverage in hand, I stagger from my apartment and greet the morning sun with the joy of a naked mole rat. Luckily, I packed my Ray-Ban aviators, essential to the half-buzzed eagerly seeking full-tilt. With a surgeon's finesee, I flick my Zippo and chase my breakfast with a delicious Marlboro Light. Ready to face the day, it's time to meet the homies.
In an unnamed Village Apartment, 8 a.m. is being celebrated with the usual gusto of 8 p.m. Pancakes are cooked, beers are chugged and the Darkness is cranked from the cacophonous stereo. After a few flapjacks and a bevy of brews, I believe in a thing called love (or, more likely, lust).
This early morning insanity, commonly known as "pregaming," is the antecedent to a kegs-and-eggs gathering in Soulard. For 20 bucks, we are rewarded with four hours of runny eggs, limp bacon, greasy sausage and Pabst Blue Ribbon. During the first of many unanswered questions that day, I ask myself why I bothered pregaming when I was essentially covered until noon. Well, I'm no math major, and one never knows when the kegs will run dry.
Sweetness comes in many flavors, but today's specialties are apple, mint, berry and bourbon Skoal. Word quickly travels among the clandestine society of closet dippers that free chaw is offered in copious amounts at the "Skoal Zone." I complete three surveys, using different identities each time (Mom was pissed when the Marlboro Man became my pen pal), and exit the tent with enough Skoal to last me a lifetime. Oh yeah, baby, I'm a Skoooal man!
Willy Wonkan moment of zen over with, I return to the Great Grizzly Bear with my lips and pockets packed with chew. Before long, it occurs to me that dipping, although really manly, also really hurts. I spit it out and wash down the alleged-apple flavor with another PBR.
Around 11 a.m., I realize that I have yet to sight the constellation Areola Borealis, so to remedy the situation I remove my shirt and figure that the ladies will follow suit. They do not. Sadly, the first Mardi Gras mammaries glimpsed were my own.
If you were in attendance for that particular showing, I apologize for any eating disorder that you may have developed.
Due to, like, hundreds of chicks fainting in awe of my gun show, I decide to put my shirt back on before Butlermania erupted and take a cab back to campus. Truth be told, I needed a nap; truth be told, I needed to pass out.
Untold hours later, I awoke to the comforting sounds of "Halo 2"-inspired profanity eminating from my living room. Checking every inch of my body for any drunken-Picasso drawings of male genitalia, etched in permanent marker, I find none and conclude that I'm ready for Round Two.
We rally the troops, drink beers and smoke cigs. At long last, we hunt down a sober driver and return to Soulard's jigglefest. The parking spot is somewhere in East Jesus, but that's OK: I'm back, and nothing else matters.
The scene is torn from the pages of Dante's "Inferno." Two blocks from the car, I witness a gang of very big, very butch women engage in a brawl that would make Jerry Springer blush. These chicks are way bigger than me, so I relax and enjoy the show.
Farther down the road, I spy an overturned outhouse, its unhinged door the mouth of a most-revolting river. My Inferno analogy is officially perfect, confirming my status as a raging nerd.
I ford the crap creek unscathed, and the titillation begins in earnest. A cornocupia of cans bust out before my eyes, and suddenly I feel like it's Christmas. Except, on Christmas I see presents unwrapped, and today I see bras unsnapped. Life is beautiful.
Birdwatching for the not-so-elusive boobs is hard work, and I need a beer. Good lord, every place around here charges five bucks just to enter, and another five for a friggin can of Budweiser. I've officially discovered why this holiday exists: Sober people make a lot of money from drunk people.
The day began with $60, will end with $3, but I refuse to quit just yet. My credit card burns a hole in my wallet, and Humphrey's beckons. Don't worry, Mom, I stopped by for a burger and fries, I swear.
Closing time rolls around, and I retire to my apartment. Before I fall asleep, I perform a quick fridge check. Yep, OJ and Aristocrat are still in the house.
The Super Bowl tomorrow is going to be sweet.
