No, I had the kind of Mardi Gras where I stayed home.
I was still suffering from:
- a head cold,
- a chest cold,
- swine flu,
- pneumonia, or
- that trusty old New Orleans crud.
So I stayed home.
I'm not comfortable in crowds, you see, never have been; and Mardi Gras crowds can be overwhelming, stopping you in your tracks for what can seem to be like hours at a time. Even yesterday, when I finally did venture out to pick up a lunch from a little joint up the street, this scrawny slut tried to block me from crossing the street on my way back home. They have no manners or respect, these kids today. They should be kept in pens.
So, yes, I stayed home. Home, where it was close and warm. Where I could cough my lungs out, moan about the way the world has gone to hell, and mourn the passing of the good old days when life was, you know, good. When bosoms and boners had meaning, and scrawny sluts knew how to make you feel like you were really the one wearing the most radiant costume for miles around and nobody, but nobody, else could pound the cobblestones (or even the asphalt, for that matter) like you could.
It was a lovely holiday. My kind of Mardi Gras.