Happy Mardi Gras, bitches!

If you can’t tell, I’ve been to the parades today. Again. I think this is, like, five parades now? Who can keep track when I’m still drunk.

So here I am, drunk blogging, which is something I’ve always wanted to do but it isn’t something you can do on purpose.  It has to be ORGANIC!

ORGANIC DRUNK BLOGGING, NOW IWHT MROE TYPOS!

My god, I can’t feel my fucking fingers. Do you know how hard it is to type when you can’t feel your fingers?  It’s hard, even for a typer like me who totally kicked everyone’s ass in 10th grade typing 101.  I’ve always been an academic over-achiever, even at the age of 15.

Honestly, I think I deserve some extra beads just for not having typos every other letter.

(I really should leave in all my typos. I’m spending half my timy backspacing over my typos. God, I’m drunk.)

(If you haven’t noticed, I talk to God a lot when I’m drunk.)

Speaking of beads!  We were talking about beads, right? It’s hard to keep up with you’re drunk.

Have you ever wondered about girls flashing their tatas for beads at Mardi Gras?  Isn’t that the craziest shit EVER?!  My god, what low opinion those girls have of their titties if they are showing them off for cheap plastic shit.

(Notice I just talked to God about titties.  I am SO going to heaven!)

Until the crewes start throwing things like rubies and sapphires, I’m not showing shit.  I know my girls’ worth and, let me tell you, it’s not plastic beads I can buy at Wal-Mart.

If you’re flashing titty for anything less than precious stones, SHAME ON YOU.

Apparently Mardi Gras isn’t that big of deal to some people, though I have a hard time wrapping my mind around this.  How can you not get excited about a party like Mardi Gras?  I suppose when you grew up in a small, predominately Baptist town, this shit is fun.  It’s so…racy!  The fact that I can openly drink on a Sunday is, even now at the age of 35, still a phenomenom.

I walk thru downtown Mobile and see people with beers in hand and it still boggles my mind that this is ok. Seriously, my upbringing was that uptight. It’s a wonder I can even enjoy sex.

Now that I’ve mentioned sex and titties, let’s talk about religion!

(Don’t worry, more politcal incorrectness about race coming your way.)

I think I’m going to temporarily become Catholic.  I don’t want it to be official or anything because, oh my god, the rules? Fucking hell.  I just want to use Catholicism to lose a little weight.

I don’t know what Mardi Gras means to you, but to me, it means a lot of excess in the way of partying, food, and drinking  until Ash Wednesday when suddenly you’re required to be pious until Easter.  I don’t pretend to fully understand this line of thinking, but when the hell does organized religion ever make sense?

People put ASH on their foreheads and wear it ALL day. What the hell?  What’s a fake Catholic supposed to put on their forehead? I think I’ll use kitty litter.

Mardi Gras is like your last hoo-ray.  And let me tell you, I’ve been hoo-ray’ing it and as a result, you get this…

HEATHER, NOW WITH LESS CHEEK DEFINITION!

AND!

I'M DRUNK & COULD CARE LESS ABOUT PUFFY CHEEKS!

I could rightfully dismiss this as Aunt Flo induced bloatedness, but I’m a female and I’m required to belittle myself, having my period during Mardi Gras be damned.

So in the spirit of fake Catholicism, I’m going to participate in Lent and give up junk food.  I considered also giving up alcohol for 40 days since it is a high caloric drink, but Wally reined me in by saying, “We don’t want to get too crazy with this fake Catholic shit.”

Besides, if I gave up all my vices, such as my penchance for both Pringles and vodka martinis, I might lose the newly acquired junk in my trunk.

I finally gotz some junk!

I’ve waited 35 damn years to have some semblance of an ass. I used to be one of those skinny white bitches with no ass or tits, and by god, that shit has changed thanks to my relaxed Mobile lifestyle. I don’t want to lose it!

Needless to say, I won’t be taking this fake Catholic shit too far.

Now onto race!

High school marching bands are a part of almost every parade here.  Since Mobile is not a small town, there are, of course, inner city schools and then the suburban school marching bands.

You know what that means, right?  Let me make it crystal clear while I can use drunkedness as an excuse for my lack of tact.

There are white bands and black bands.

The difference between the two is so obvious that, I apologize in advance for my political incorrectness, it’s laughable.

(By the way, my kids are playing with plastic trumpets purchased by grandparents from street vendors and all I have to say is those trumpets are going to end up up someone’s ass if they don’t stop that shit RIGHT NOW!)

Back to race and me laughing at it.

We’re standing on Wally’s office balcony (which, by the way, is right on the parade route and makes me feel like a total priviledged elitist, what with my private bathrooms and shit.) and here comes the suburuban school marching bands, marching with obvious invisible rods up their ass.  They are so…stiff, with their Beattles music and proper marching steps.

Then come the inner city bands, and since I’m being drunkenly frank, with the all black participants and they’re playing…hell, I don’t know what they’re playing.  All I know is it makes me want to gyrate my hips! And the junk in my trunk. Hot damn!

So there we are, me and my family, along with a bunch of other people, on the balcony during a night parade, listening (and gyrating!) to the marching bands.  All of the sudden, I hear Payton yell out….

“I LOVE BLACK PEOPLE!”

Oh. My. Shit.

He yelled this repeatedly during the black marching bands. Let me say this again:

Oh. My. Shit.

What do I do?

I mean, the boy is just being a sincere little 8-year-old.  He could intuitively feel the different (and fun!) energy of the all-black bands, and my gut tells me he was simply vocalizing his appreciation of it.

But should I have taken him aside and had one of those “teaching moments” about race and appropriate comments? After all, this is the South and we were standing on a balcony full of yuppie white people.

If anyone on the ground had heard what he was yelling? Looking up and seeing this little boy, standing up there with a bunch of other whites, yelling how he loved black people,  I wonder what they would have thought?

Would they thought he was just awesome? Or patronizing? (Even though I know he was totally not patronizing.)

Of course, I highly doubt anyone heard him because while I was jumping up and down, yelling for people to throw me something, I unintentionally ripped a fart and no one even heard it over all the screaming.

I swear my ass muscles don’t work like they used to.

This entry was posted on Sunday, February 22nd, 2009 at 6:10 pm and is filed under And This Is Why I Drink, Evidence File for The Betty. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.