I Got Bourbon Faced on Shit Street

I would like to preface this post by making it perfectly clear that I am in no way shape or form a jersey chaser. I cannot stand dating or having any sort of romantic/physical relationship with them. I have tried it in the past only want to stick something sharp and metal into both my eyes. (I would, however, not be opposed to being a groupie “Band-Aid”.)

A not so long, long time ago in a world not exactly all that far, far away I used to be a college student. During this portion of my life, I happened to be a student manager for the athletic program for my alma mater’s brother school.

Now, their student manager program is roughly the equivalent of slave labor for Sri Lankan sweatshops. We worked preposterously long hours, rarely ever ate or slept, did not get paid, all the while striving to keep our grades up to avoid becoming academically ineligible. You may be asking, “Why on God’s green earth would you willing participate in such a scam?!” Well, we did receive tuition and book assistance, traveled with our teams, and had experiences no one else has had. Manager parties were also the sniznit. (Seriously – Lacrosse House and Hockey House had nothing on us.)

My junior year I was a manager for the football program. As a reward for being an outstanding coach’s bitch manager, I was granted the honor of traveling with the team to their bowl game in New Orleans, LA. Now, three things were certain about this trip:

1) The J.W. Marriot we were put up in was approximately one block away from
Bourbon Street.
2) We were each handed $600 in per diem when we got there.
3) There was a Wendy’s and a McDonald’s with 99 cent and dollar menus within
walking distance of the hotel.

Do you really need me to tell you where the majority of our combined $7,200 went?

While the whole trip was an absolute shit-show, I want to highlight one particular evening we spent on Rue de Bourbon -- January 3rd, 2007.

This splendid night in January happened to also be the night of the game. You know – the thing we actually traveled to New Orleans for? After our boys bent over and took it from the opposing team for sixty minutes of pure ass-whopage, us managers felt it would only be appropriate to get good and schmackered on Bourbon Street.

And good and schmackered we got.

In time, and God only knows how, my ‘wifey’ Slawless and I were separated from the other nineteen people we were with. Things were very hazy for me at this point, but I do remember us being at a skeezy dance club with the heavy hitters from the team. We apparently danced with one player in particular – we’ll call him Prince Eric -- for quite some time before taking refuge on a nearby (possibly disease infested) couch.

(This is where any semblance of dignity I had not lost in the previous three years of college goes right out the window.)

While attempting to reduce my vision to only two of everything, Slawess observes a random skank – we’ll call her Skanky McRando -- giving Prince Eric a lap dance.

Slawless exclaims her disgust: “Ugh! I know her! She’s such a slut.”

To which my outstanding and resounding reply was, “Fuck that.”

I proceed to sway up, catch my balance, shove Skanky McRando off of Prince Eric’s lap, and carry on giving him one of my own drunken erotic boogies. (Apparently it is unacceptable if Skanky McRando simulates sexual moves on our players – but it is perfectly fine if I do.)

I wish I could tell you how the dance went. Or how we ended up at a strip club at 4:00am. Or how I got back to my hotel room. But I blacked out promptly after, “Fuck that.”

Slawless and I didn’t get back to the hotel until 7:00am. I guess most of the other dozen managers were leaving to catch their flights at this time. Thank all that is good and holy my flight wasn’t until 3:00pm.

I did not sober up until I landed in Milwaukee that evening at 5:00pm.

Prince Eric was drafted that year to the Cleveland Browns. Mother was horrified. Father was proud.

Incase you were wondering, yes, photographic evidence was taken. If you want to see them you must give me your first-born child, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and your e-mail address (or just your e-mail address).