It’s a Thursday in the dead of winter. You and your bros are playing some ball at the gym trying to sweat out some of the alcohol from last night. Since you’re just fucking around, you’re obviously more concerned with making jokes than actually trying to win. As you grab the ball at the top of the key you start jawing at your bro.
“This is what we call the ‘Jimmy Dolan Shake and Bake.’ First you think I’m moving left, then you think I’m going right, but I just go straight through your motherfucking legs!”
As you slam on the 8 foot rim, you scream, “Game. Winshasa.”
Big mistake. All your bros immediately stop laughing and get stone face serious.
“Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you. Everyone knows that Winabi is the motherfucking town in 'The Air Up There.'”
“Yeah, what the fuck are you thinking?”
Since you’re a bro, you don’t back down to anyone. So you snap back, “Fuck off, you don’t know shit. How dare you challenge me. I’ve seen that fucking movie like 20 times, I've even got a fucking Jimmy Dolan St. Joe’s #34 throwback jersey.”
As things start to really heat up and it looks as though punches are about to be thrown one of your bros speaks up, “Shut the fuck up. All of you. Look at yourselves. What are we, fucking #100 Guidos? Are we really going to “throw ‘bows” over this shit? We’re better than that. We’re better than everyone. We’re bros. Look, this fucking winter has got us all a little crazy and I think it’s time we mix this shit up. We need a change of scene. It’s time we get the fuck out of town. It’s time for a #79 road trip. It’s time for fucking Mardi Gras.”
You and your bros are immediately sold. Quickly you start the “Mar-di Gras” #4 chant and within seconds you are all jumping up and down body slamming each other screaming the only French words outside of "Ménage a trois" that a bro should ever know. Twenty minutes later, without even wasting time for a shower, you and your bros are hitting the road for the ultimate bro trip. Next stop – the biggest shit show on the entire fucking planet – Mardi Gras.
New Orleans is one of those cities that was designed specifically for bros. I remember walking down Bourbon Street for the first time at the age of 16 and thinking that I was in fucking heaven. There’s strip clubs and bars everywhere. There’s even people #48 puking all over the streets while others chant their name. One time I saw some woman so fucking drunk that she fell slow-motion into a huge ass puddle of horse shit and vomit. Obviously I just laughed and didn’t help her up because I’m a fucking bro. Also, she was fat and therefore worthless.
New Orleans is basically the bar equivalent of the #61 Vegas club scene. While Guidos are dropping 10 grand on bottle service just so they can say they were at the same fucking #45 club as the fat Kardashian sister, bros can go to New Orleans to drop $2.50 on a 32 ounce beer and just scream shit in the street. While this shit happens pretty much all year round, there’s no better time than Mardi Gras.
When bros go on road trips to Mardi Gras, they rarely even have a place to stay. Maybe they have a friend of a friend who goes to Tulane or some shit who said they could shower at their place, but that’s about it. Sure it might not seem so smart right off the bat to #8 roll deep to an unfamiliar town with no place to stay, but you are forgetting – bros are the smartest people on the planet. First of all, bros don’t’ fucking need to sleep when they are at Mardi Gras. Sleep just sobers you up and therefore is a waste of money. But say you want to get a little sleep somewhere that isn’t your car. What ever are you going to do??? That’s right find some slam piece and just use-bang her for her bed. Problem fucking solved.
While New Orleans is known for it’s food, music, and water park, the aspect of life that bros identify with best is the exchange rate. Of course I’m talking about how giving girls beads means you get to see some fucking #69 titties. This is by far the greatest invention that God ever created. Just get a handful of cheap ass beads for like $5 and you can literally negotiate what you want some random stranger on the street to do for one of your beads. I always love the fucking self-righteous girls who demand “high quality beads.” Please, it doesn’t fucking matter what beads you get, it’s not going change the fact that you’re a whore.
Bros realize the genius in this system, so you better believe they try to bring the traditions to their house parties. I don’t think it’s possible to go through College without going to at least one Mardi Gras party where there is some prize for whatever girl gets the most amount of beads at the end of the party. The night usually starts with bros going around to all the slam pieces and testing them by half-jokingly asking them what they would do to earn the beads. By about hour two it’s clear who is going to take home the prize. Usually it’s the girl who’s been passed around by all your bros. She’s usually standing in the corner, drunk as shit, surrounded by bros who have been chanting, “SHOW YOUR TITS” for the past half hour. Of course, she does, and of course every time those #5 nipples get broken out there’s a huge “YEAAAHHHHH!!!!” and #13 high fives all around.
While for most of the World, Mardi Gras means the last day of partying before Lent, bros don’t give a fuck about all that shit. All it really means is that bros are going out on a fucking Tuesday with a shitload of beads and pretty much a 100% chance of seeing some titties. Will you have to take these girls out on a #75 date to see their knockers? No. Will you have to #49 call her or even know her name? Fuck no. Just give her about 10 cents worth of plastic and let the magic happen. God I fucking love Mardi Gras.