giggle pop

A while ago someone asked me to explain when I meant by “that horse at Mardi Gras” when referring to being attacked by animals. I figured telling this story would give you, my readers, a deeper insight into just who I am. So here it is, the story of how I almost got into a fight with a horse. Really I was defending myself so it is the story of how a horse attacked me and I almost fought back.

Let’s go back a few years, it was my first year of law school in New Orleans, and it was my first Mardi Gras. I figure I should explain the few days leading up to the equestrian encounter so you can understand just how I ended up wanting to fight a horse. It was Friday afternoon and a girl I did not know all to well yet, let’s call her Miss Jaco, gave me a call and asked me to go to a parade. Wanting to get in on this whole Mardi Gras thing, and never one to pass down drinking on a street I of course said yes. I get picked up by Miss Jaco, another friend who I will call “Limbo” and Miss Jaco’s boyfriend at the time, lets call him “Freddy.” We all head to the parades giant daiquiris (with extra shot) in hand, and start jumping up and down trying to catch beads and other cheap plastic doo-dads which I had no problem pushing children, bitches, and old people out of the way to get.

I learned after that first parade, I frickin’ LOOOVE Mardi Gras. It involves many of my favorite things: festive costumes, cheap toys, colorful things, drinking on the street, large drunken crowds, endless walking, and just general inappropriate behavior. Now most people from New Orleans hang out on the parade routs in neighborhoods, there is lots and lots of partying and not really any of that flashing stuff, thankfully. After the parades ended our little group wandered to one of our many favorite watering holes F&M’s patio bar. If you have never been to New Orleans or never wandered off of Bourbon Street on your visit let me explain F&M’s to you. We would often refer to it as “the black hole.” It looks just as sketchy inside as it does outside…and that is pretty damn sketchy. It is unwise to show up before 1am, and unheard of to show up before midnight. If you go in, it is a miracle if you get out before 6am, if you leave there before 6am it will only be to go to an even sketchier bar that will be open even later. It also has the most incredible cheese fries, they may be the single best drunken food on the planet, they are magical. We stayed there until god knows when, and I luckily ended up in my bed.

I wake up a few hours later, parades start early on Saturday, and we had to get there plenty early to get a good spot. So this day it was just me, Miss Jaco, and Freddy. We get our giant daiquiris, load up the cooler and head out. Spend the day at parades, wander various bars and then decide to go to a friend’s apartment, let’s call him “tool bag” in the warehouse district which is in proximity to the French Quarter. Now let me explain, I had not even come close to sobering up when I woke up Saturday morning, and I had started drinking almost immediately so by the time we arrived at tool bag’s apartment I had been considerably drunk for about 28 consecutive hours.

After drinking at tool bag’s apartment for a while the three of us leave and wander to Bourbon Street for the “experience.” We start wandering down the street and get a Hand Grenade (another special highly alcohol filled New Orleans drink, like the giant daiquiri). Bourbon Street is packed with people, crazy touchy people everywhere. I am kind of scared, very drunk and clinging to my friends and my hand grenade. We stop for a minute, and all of a sudden I feel something stomp on my foot. When I say stomp I mean STOMP it hurt sooooo bad. I start thinking “duuude, there is no way someone did that on accident, someone just stomped on my foot and I need to find out why.” So as I get over the initial pain I turn around with my arms out in my best pissed off pose and say “what is your problem” expecting to see some d-bag who stepped on my foot.

When I turned around it was not a person, in fact I had NO idea what it was. All I saw was a giant weird looking creatures face looking at me. I was beyond confused, and said quietly and intensely “WHAT ARE YOU??!!??” In a miraculous moment of clarity I realized it was a horse, not just a horse, a horse with a policeman on it. And I then realized my plan to push and/or confront whoever it was that stomped on me was not in fact a good plan. It was in fact a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad plan, and I scurried away confused.

The next morning I was woken up by the scent of a full hand grenade (we must have gone back for seconds) and was never in such pain. Not only in pain from a hangover, but also the intense smell of midori, and the ginormous bruise on my foot.
I learned many valuable lessons that night:
1. Mardi Gras brings out my fightin’ side
2. Horses are to be feared, and I still fear and avoid them
3. I am certain the horse intended to step on me
4. You can actually get drunk enough to not be able to recognize the most basic of farm creatures
5. Never fall asleep cuddling with full hand grenade the smell is hands down the worst smell ever when hungover
6. Any time I start drinking before noon usually ends both simultaneously horribly and hilariously
7. Miss Jaco ended up being one of my best friends and this was far from our last or most epic drunken adventure.
and I think the most interesting part of this all is that this story does not surprise most people I know in the slightest, and this was only night two of my five day Mardi Gras bender.

This picture is of a stuffed horse I caught at my third, and likely final, Mardi Gras…I took it as a sign that life always comes full circle.