Mardi Gras. Suds for miles and babes in piles, bro! That's what bein' a SigEp is all about! You ever see that movie Teen Wolf ? SigEps are kinda like that, only we don't need a full moon, and instead of turning into werewolves that slam dunk, we turn into some seriously awesome dudes that can drink a whole garbage can of jungle juice and nail any chump's girlfriend faster than you can say "keg stand."
We're also seriously committed to our academic studies.
Anyhoes, when Nasty Nate told me we were headin' down to New Orleans (N'awlins, as they say) I was totally psyched. Who wouldn't be? Yeah, Katrina wailed on that shit pretty hard, but that was like two years ago! After Rush Week, the SigEp house looked almost as bad as some of those Katrina pictures, and it only took us a few days to clean that shit up. Plus, hey-no sense in makin' it spotless right before another rager, right?
Roll call! First off, we've got Nasty Nate. Takin' shots and poundin' twats, Nate's one of the sickest bros around. Next up, we've got Charles "Gnarls" Anderson. He's super into this band, Gnarls Barkley. We all think they're kinda gay, but Gnarls swears their songs make chicks wanna smooch bones. Last but not least is yours truly, Chet "The Triple Threat" Stevens. As for my nickname, let's just put it this way: if you ever run into the infamous Delta Zeta Triplets, don't mention me unless you like the taste of pepper spray.
Question: How many brews can three SigEps pound on a five-hour flight? Answer: I don't know. A billion?
We touched down in N'awlins at 6:00 pm and went to pick up the rental car. But on our way there, some scraggily lookin' broad with a righteous set of sweater puppies sold us her ride for 100 bones! Gnarls threw some beads at her, but instead of dumpin' the tats she gave us a weird look and asked us for a ride to the hospital. Fuck no-if there's one thing a SigEp can't stand, it's a fuckin' crybaby ice princess.
To make matters worse, her ride was this lame maroon Toyota Tercel all covered in mud and sticks. None of us could come up with anything that rhymed with "Tercel," so we decided just to call it "The Fuckmobile." Whatever. The piece started right up, and we were off, cruisin' down the highway like sailors on shore leave.
By the time we finally hit Bourbon Street, the Three Amigos were ready to get nasty! Gnarls ended up trailin' a set of quakin' cheeks into some busted lookin' bar. SigEps don't cock-block, so we had to follow our bro.
The place was really dank and kinda smelled like mildew. They had all the lights off and everyone in there looked pretty depressed too, just kinda sippin' their beers all quiet and lookin' down at the rotted-out bar. We couldn't really figure out what the place's deal was-until Nate figured out that it was supposed to be pirate-themed 'cuz the bartender had a tattered shirt and an eye patch. But the barkeep didn't say "arrrrr" or anything and his eye patch was white gauze, like the kind you get at the hospital. Not so piratey if you ask me. Fuck a pirate theme-if anything I'd say it was a bummer theme.
When I tried to order a round of Jager, the dude looked up at me, muttered something in some weird language (it kinda sounded like English but, like, different) and stared at me until I walked away. I guess they didn't have Jager. Too bad-Triple Threat doesn't fuck around when it comes to tippin' his bartender.
Gnarls struck out with his bitch eventually (what's up with these hos not wantin' beads?), and the place was a total sausage fest, so we took off. We snagged a case of Natty Ice, stashed 'em in my Eastpak and started cruisin' the strip, ready to get our bones wet! We were lookin' for the next spot when all of a sudden, I noticed an orange glow down at the end of this little side street. I've got a sixth sense when it comes to finding bonfire parties, so we staggered off in that direction, pumping each other up and throwing beads at anything that moved. By the time we got there, we were ready to tear the lid off the place.
They do bonfires down in "N'awlins" a little different than we do 'em up in Columbus, I guess. Back home, we fire 'em up to get radical. Down in N'awlins, they fire 'em up to cook food and stay warm.
The whole block we were on was kind of trashed-there were piles of debris all around, overturned cars left and right... I'm no stranger to the rager, but it looked like these dudes had just wrapped up the eviction party of the century! There were a couple of people sitting around this little fire next to this weird makeshift shack, just kinda chillin' out on milk crates and passin' a flask around. I guess the party had died down already, but we figured maybe they'd know where the next fiesta was poppin' off. Besides, the soup they were cookin' up smelled good as hell, son!
I busted out a Natty or two and one of the dudes asked if he could have one. I threw one his way, and then this other scraggly-lookin' dude asked for two. Then another dude asked what else I had in my bag, but by then we were all partyin' so, you know, whatever!
Nate asked this one broad if she wanted any beads, but she said she needed money for food instead. Gnarls had some of those plastic gold doubloons, so he threw 'em at her and told her to make with the skin! Before I knew it, we were all crackin' up and screamin' at her to dump the tats, but I guess she was a feminist or a lesbian or some shit cuz instead of pullin' out a mam, the bitch pulled out a knife and got all up in Nate's face! Me and Gnarls were practically falling over laughing, when all of the sudden we both got hit really hard from behind and actually fell over.
When we woke up, all of our shit was gone: watches, wallets, cell phones-they even took our shoes! Gnarls got really upset and started crying like a little bitch, but I reminded him that we'd all pulled a few pranks in our day. "That's the thing about N'awlins, man," I told him. "They party so hard down here they can even teach the SigEps a thing or two!"
Ross Wolinsky writes occasionally at Hypocritical Mass, but usually he just lazily posts links to stupid shit he finds on the internet.
Bawitdaba, pass the green beans.
It's hard out there for millionaire purveyors of garbage pizza.