It’s truly amazing how quickly Mardi Gras seems to sneak up on us. Now that the season has commenced, unsuspecting Freshman all over the city have stepped blindly into the lion’s den. Suddenly, a semester’s worth of expectations comes crumbling down into a chaotic pile of spandex, faux fur and unread Canvas notifications. Out in the distance, the disappointed howls of three lonesome math majors can be heard on Bourbon Street: “I really thought I was gonna see my first titty today. Whatever happened to good ol’ public indecency?”
The Sharp GroupMe is blowing up. Emily needs a pink tutu, stat. Lauren struts through the hallway, Redbubble package in hand. Before she has the chance to reveal what rapper is plastered on her new leggings, a loud rumble interrupts her. A jersey clad posse of new frat pledges storms in, surrounded by a cloudy haze of Juul smoke. One of them reeks of stale urine. Earlier that day he had boldly proclaimed, “Let’s just piss wherever we want, no one actually gets arrested during Mardi Gras.” The group of boys sets off down the hall to mix a fresh batch of Vat in their Kentwood and talk about how the B-school offers free printing.
Downstairs, a herd of girls marches dramatically out of the elevator. A blonde, covered head to toe in chunky glitter, yells, “Ladies, does everyone have their granola bars?” The brunette decked out in metallic leggings and an over-sized fanny pack chimes in, “Obviously, I mean we all read the Stall Street Journal right?”
Meanwhile across campus, another squad is gathered ‘round, frantically editing their Instagram photos. One girl carefully blurs out every individual weed leaf on her leggings in an attempt to salvage what’s left of her relationship with her father. She asks, “Is now a good time to post? Holy shit, my camp friends are going to be so jealous!”
Over on Frenchman, a group of students has found themselves in a predicament. They need to find their way home but are, well, broke.To their dismay, Uber surge pricing is higher than the guy who works at Crepes a la Cart. One gentleman offers a suggestion, “Guys, why don’t we just get TEMS’d? They’ll have no choice but to take us back.”
There comes a time in every Mardi Gras virgin’s life when they realize that maybe what their RA said was true, that it really is a marathon and not a sprint. But rest assured, there are plenty of Freshmen who need to learn this lesson the hard way: soaked in piss in a frat basement with only 5 cents and a turquoise wig to their name.