Point: It’s Naturally N’awlins, Brah.

New Orleans during Mardi Gras, probably better known as the “Mecca of Partying” for people of all ages, is the place to be this upcoming weekend. I mean, screw you Vanderbubble-bound guys, I’m going home and experiencing the best of what my city has to offer, which will possibly be better than ever now that the Saints have just won the Superbowl for the first time. (A cool Brees rolled in and I…jazzed in my pants.) Week-long, full-fledged Mardi Gras. The greatness can only be calculated by the city’s vast volume of vomit that will accumulate after night after night after night of partying.

I really do pity you people who will be stuck on campus “celebrating” the blandness of regular everyday life as someone tries to fool you into thinking that “Vandy Gras,” a shitty substitute for the real thing, is actually worth staying around for. I applaud the attempt to capture the essence of my city, but Vandy’s “Masquerade Ball” is probably being thrown by a bunch of people who have never even attended a real one and who have probably never even been to NOLA.

As if this notion is not implicit enough already, let me make the comparisons more clear.

When I’m back in the homelands hearing people yell out “Show me your tits!,” you’ll be stuck hearing the rent-a-cops mumbling “Show me your Vandy card” every time you re-enter your dorms. Moreover, the likelihood of me seeing a nice set of ta-ta’s is a lot higher than you getting a peek down some chick’s shirt at a frat party, and my view will probably be better too. Besides, live jazz music and legit show-stopping marching bands just easily crush the same, sorry, sad, sucker songs of Lady GaGa and Miley Cyrus. This is a New Orleans party now, biotch!

As if this weekend can’t get any better already, I’m also turning legal, so when I’m getting smashed in public with the rest of my Crescent City brethren holding a New Orleans original “Hand Grenade” drink in one hand and a cheap, fake tomahawk in the other, you’ll be trying to sneak your booze in past the guards. More than likely, they will catch you this weekend, as knowing that it’s soon to be Mardi Gras, they’ll be on high alert for any gym bags that have an oddly boxy shape to them.

While you’re restricted to Nashville’s Broadway Avenue, I’ll be laughing at all of the fools crowded on Bourbon Street. All the locals know that some of the best spots in the city are actually off of the tourist trap that is Bourbon, so we’ll be partying there. Moreover, don’t listen to those stupid Versus writers, I can assert myself and mark my territory by pissing in public. Screw waiting in line. Also, I have no qualms with elbowing old ladies or knocking over small children for a few beads or trinkets. The old ladies should know their place and the little kids will soon learn that it’s just a New Orleans rite of passage. However, back to the pissing, for those of you trying to party on campus, the best you can hope to do is “break the seal” when the Vandy cops are looking away, or you better prepare to get a night sticked through the backdoor.

Lastly, I get real food this weekend. My dad is a fisherman and will be going to be cooking legit New Orleans dishes: fresh seafood gumbo, crab soup, and fried shrimp. I also get fresh slices of King Cake, mugs of Café au Lait, and hot, sticky, sweet beignets that just left the fryer. What do you get? Oh yeah, the same old bland-ass Randwiches and Commoners’ Dinner. Lucky you. And the shrimp that they will try to serve you will most likely be the pre-packaged SYSCO shit imported from another country that doesn’t naturally grow any product of shrimp. (P.S. – Those countries have to make man-made shrimp farms that are filled with antibiotics and, because of that, taste like exactly what they eat: shit.) But for all you Yankees who have never eaten real Gulf shrimp, you have no idea what you’re missing, so continue to eat that pitiful excuse of what Louisiana is famous for.

Hence, if you haven’t made plans to do so already, I highly recommend that you find a way to get down to New Orleans this weekend. Plane, car, raft, hitch-hiking, riding a hobo, whatever, just make it happen. This will probably be one of the best Mardi Gras seasons in decades, and about 15 years from now, when all of your friends are getting drunk and remembering the stories about how Tim was found blacked out on a street corner by a transvestite stripper named “Candy,” you will feel like a total dumbass for missing it. Your papers can be written the night before and you can cram for your tests on the day of, but you I can promise that you will regret missing this for the rest of your life.

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