An email I wrote from New Orleans about 1/2 of my trip for Mardi Gras.

Of utmost importance now is speed.  I am presently being raped in my anus by a large internet cafe dildo and don’t have the time to correct errors and/or bother to make any damn sense.  Here’s what I’ve been up to:

THURSDAY
Got off the plane.  Met a gay man who shrieked when he even smelled turbulence and a woman who was born in New Orleans and loved her dog more than her son.   Proceeded to take 2 hour taxi ride with several guys insisting I had to flash them or risk angering the “Boobie God.”  Laughed nervously and told the driver to hurry the fuck up (the taxi continued at a snail’s pace despite my telepathic aid).  Met up with my cousin Chelsea and our friend from Colorado, Dustin.  Got drunk and saw some parade.  Details are sketchy at this point.  Went to a bar and took shots out of waitresses tops. Dustin about shit himself with glee.

FRIDAY
More drinking and parades.  Ended up on Bourbon street.  Lots of people.  Aided Dustin in snagging a
Girls Gone Wild Hat.  Looked at some stuff.  Saw more parades and drank a lot of rum.  Was separated from my friends.  Ended up getting really smashed and talking to strangers in various accents.  Ordered a pizza and carried it down the street giving slices away in an English accent.  The people, they loved it.  Saw someone piss in the hotel lobby.  Rejoined Chelsea and Dustin, who were incredibly baked and saying nasty things about the Olsen twins respectively.  Again, details are sketchy, at best.

DRUNKDAY
Three parades.  Shittons of beads.  My neck was practically bowed.  Seriously, I understand how
rappers feel now.  Even more than in the sense that they are my fellow pimps. Got hit in the face with a sack of beads.  Excellent parade.

TODAY
Got up before God Himself to go to a brunch.  Turns out it’s this huge Bacchus brunch deal and Elijah Wood was elected or kidnapped to be Bacchus.  So he shows up and throws coins and shit at us, and the girls went crazy.  I got bored when he couldn’t figure out his digital camera.  He’s pretty short, too.  Was close at first but didn’t have my camera, so the pictures I did take are from further away and his hobbit ass may not show up too well.  Dustin wanted to scream out, “Frodo!” and run away, but we decided to walk out smoking with our sunglasses on instead.  Chelsea was too drunk to be reached for a comment.  So now I’m in the mall, looking for shoes for some fancy ball business tonight.  Honestly, I just want to get my ass to the Bayou and wrestle some alligators.  Mmmm.

All the food here sets my pants on fire.  I sucked the brains out of a crawfish today.  Fine cajun cuisine.
Thanks to those who wrote me (my favorites!) and sorry for being a douche and not personally responding.   I’ll get in touch with you when I can.