It’s Mardi Gras! And here’s my recap of the weekend. Let’s start with my St. Louis Mardi Gras pros and cons.
Pros– Catching beads during the parade, Tasty food, Fun music, Ice cold Hurricanes, People-watching
Cons– Being too short to catch any beads during the parade, Vomit on the sidewalks, Foul port-a-potties, Numb hands from holding cold drinks in winter weather, Actually talking to aforementioned people
Against our better judgment, my husband and I decided to attend Mardi Gras festivities in Soulard this year. If you’ve been to this fine spectacle of humanity before, I need not explain why it was a bad decision to attend.
The parade is usually a good time, the highlight of the day. But as soon as those street sweepers come through, the day pretty much spirals downhill from there.
We started at a place called Market Grill (Note: Why do they have a .org website?), which was actually pretty decent. Good music provided by a DJ in drag and plenty of space for our group of five to hang. The only problem was the bathroom. And not so much the bathroom, as those in line to use the bathroom. My friend Colleen and I had a smart strategy to get in line before we actually had to urinate, thus, by the time we did have to go 30 minutes later, we’d be next in line.
We exchanged the usual drunken pleasantries with the two ladies behind us. But at some point, the polite woman behind me snapped. All of a sudden the hosebeast was rushing to the front of the line to violently bang her fists on the door, screaming for those inside to “hurry the f up.” She did this three separate times throughout the waiting period.
We waited what seemed like hours, but could only have been 40 minutes or so. By then, we both had to go. The plan worked! Finally, we were up next. Colleen and I planned our next strategy of holding each other’s belongings so we could get in and out quickly and reduce our risk of getting the wrath of the hosebeast behind us. As Colleen took care of business, I was approached by a young blonde with tears in her eyes. She was hunched over with her legs crossed, grasping her crotch painfully.
“Please, please hurry. I’m going to wet my pants,” she implored pathetically.
“How did you get to the front of the line so quickly!?” I demanded to know, wondering how she tamed the hosebeast.
“These women behind me saw how badly I had to go and let me into the line. Please, just hurry when you get in there!”
Now, I had a moral dilemma. I couldn’t in good conscience take my sweet time in the loo whilst this pathetic young woman peed her pants. I pitied her. I had to ask myself, “Annie, what would Jesus do?”
I answered with, “Jesus would let this hoebag cut in line.”
And so I did.
Lent is coming up soon, and I’m Catholic after all.
The problem was, there was no way of telling Colleen. So, when she opened the door only to be accosted by the blonde as she beelined to the toilet, Colleen sprung into action.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? No! My friend is up next!” she shouted as the blonde tried to squeeze past her. The blonde’s attempts were unsuccessful, as I choose my friends based on their feistiness and ability to block like an offensive lineman.
“It’s ok, Colleen! I’m just doing what Jesus would do!”
The appeal of the bar waning, my husband made the fantastic suggestion to go to the Landing to get some food at Show Me’s. Fortunately, there was a shuttle running back and forth between the Landing and the Mardi Gras festivities. We got to the stop just in time. We boarded and walked toward the open seat in the back of the bus.
The drunks flanking each side apprised us of the situation. The back seat had some sort of liquid covering it. I couldn’t make out whether it was beer, urine or afterbirth.
“It’s ok. I don’t think it’s puke,” one drunk assured us.
“It’s probably just a spilled beer…Or piss!” added another drunk.
The debate carried on for about 30 more seconds, each drunk concurring that I should sit down, no big deal. Finally I had to explain to them that I didn’t care what the puddle consisted of. In general, I just don’t sit in unidentified liquids.
It’s just one of my rules. And I think Jesus would probably agree with me on that one.