So apparently the housewives in my neighborhood have no love for the traditions of New Orleans. I stood in front of my local Piggly Wiggly all afternoon with a box full of cheap plastic beads, and all I have to show for it is a black eye, a torn suit, and a citation for lewd and lascivious conduct. But nary a peek at even a single naked boob.
Not that I can blame them: New Orleans is, after all, a disgusting den of iniquity, and I usually ignore everything that comes out of it. Still, even a broken calendar can be right once a year.
Wait. Dammit. I should’ve gone to the community college. If there’s one thing drunken young sluts are known for doing, it’s showing strange men their tits. Oh well. I’ll keep it in mind for next year.