Thursday, June 12, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Louisiana
Name: Louisiana
DOB: 1803 (territory acquired), April 30, 1812 (state admitted to Union)
Occupation: weird awesomeness
Hometown: N/A
Current residence: check a map
Anyway, I know all you dedicated Razzyphiles and Haters alike have been without a place to direct your respective adoration or ire, so, as unhappy as I am about my brief vacation being over, I’m pleased to make my glorious return to the internets. And I may as well start by gratuitously telling you about how awesome my trip was!
I already knew that the trip was going to be a serious departure from New York during my flight on Saturday afternoon. Everyone on the plane seemed to know each other judging by their constant chatting with each other. The people behind me were returning from a vacation to New York and were busy telling their seatmate, a stranger who just happened to know about 50 mutual friends, acquaintances, and cousins-by-marriage. They were busy exchanging stories about what they did during their trip, like which restaurants they went to and how many times they visited Ground Zero, which they referred to as “9-1-1” (not “nine-eleven” or “September 11th”, but “nine-one-one”, like the emergency hotline). After two and a half hours of listening to these chatty folks yammering about Tom Colicchio’s sandwich-making prowess and whether or not they liked Wicked or Phantom of the Opera more, I wasn’t entirely out of New York bitch mode and tolerant of the constantly jaw-flapping Southern attitude. I was ready for a damn drink.
I was delighted when LL Cool Jew picked me up and informed me that our first stop (after a quick drive-by of the ruins of the Magnolia Projects where Juvenile came up) was going to be some fancy old hotel bar for mint juleps. We subsequently met up with BigBagel for dinner at Cochon, this upscale place serving expensive versions of old Southern favorites. After a bottle of wine and big plates of pig ears, pork cheeks, salad with fried beef jerky, and frog legs, we went to change in preparation for the requisite tourist visit to the French Quarter. This also seemed like a natural first stop since, like me, this part of town is known for its exposed breasts.
First we had a few drinks and then met up with LL Cool Jew’s former colleague, who I’ll call Lil’ Darlin’, because that’s the name of the strip club she swore was the hip-hop club. After taking our seats and receiving a fistful of dollars each from BigBagel, we were ready to see some girls shaking their jelly to Lil’ Wayne songs. Much to our chagrin, as a new peeler took the stage, we heard the melancholy electronic opening notes to a RADIOHEAD song. “What the fuck?” LL Cool Jew and I both simultaneously said. Who strips to Radiohead? Strippers humping poles are supposed to be fun and sexy, not morose and whiny.
“This place is going downhill since the last time I was here,” said Lil’ Darlin’. “I guess they changed the format.”
“Where are the bitches writhing around to ‘Lollipop’?” demanded LL Cool Jew.
BigBagel was unable to answer because, in spite of the Radiohead or possibly because of it, he was in front of the stage slapping down ones and getting his nipples twisted by the stripper.
We stayed another ten minutes to see a few more bored-looking women shaking their cans to Linkin Park before we decided to venture out in search of hand grenades. Luckily upon getting back outside, some guys were standing on a balcony throwing beads.
“Go get some beads,” LL Cool Jew said.
While this is annoying and touristy, and I actually hate beads because when you’re a packrat with lousy housekeeping skills like myself they do nothing but contribute to clutter, I figured that I could not be on Bourbon Street and not participate in its most famous rite of clichéd debauchery. So I lifted my shirt for the bead-bearers’ benefit and walked away with a Mr. T-sized bundle of gaudy disposable neckwear. Unfortunately for all you guys, we forgot the camera for this part of the trip, but I brought some beads back to New York with me to recreate this scene from the comfort of my own apartment:
I had never eaten crawfish pie before, and in fact did not know what it was. It turns out that it’s like a giant piece of baklava that is made with a shit-ton of etouffee instead of syrup. I think it was probably at least 5000 calories, and I gladly ate my way through three quarters of it before I finally had to surrender. Those Haters who love to tell me how disgustingly fat I am will surely enjoy pointing out that I probably gained at least ten pounds in four days on this trip, and that crawfish pie probably accounted for at least two. Needless to say, it was awesome. I think I could probably write ten pages (one for each pound) alone just rhapsodizing about all the shit I ate while I was there.
After lunch, LL Cool Jew and I had a few hours to kill prior to our swamp tour, so we drove around through the countryside taking in the rural sites. We stopped at a Sonic for limeade and milkshakes just to make sure we really exceeded our lunchtime calorie intake by at least 300% and went for a drive. On our way to some old plantation house we were going to walk the grounds of, we found a completely improbable mural dedicated to the FDNY on a volunteer firehouse in the small town of Parks. LL Cool Jew insisted on taking my picture showing off my Sonic cup and acting the fool in front of it, right in time for a car of old ladies on their way from church drove by with a “Support our Troops” bumper sticker on the back of their giant Cadillac. I don’t think they liked me doing what probably could be construed as mocking the sacrifices of New York’s Bravest on what the people on my plane ride down indicated was locally known as “9-1-1”. They shot us looks of undeniable disapproval and hostility.
"Dude," she said when she snapped the picture and they passed. "Did you see that look those women gave us when they passed by? There's nothing like the icy hate of a Southern lady. It freezes, precious!"
We decided that in spite of my plane ride down leading me to believe that "911" is a perennial favorite place for Louisianans to visit in New York, it's not cool to do tourist activities around their random murals dedicated to New York's Bravest in Louisiana. We also decided that it would be a good idea to do something more officially touristy to ensure that none of the locals get pissed and give us directions to the House of Wax.
Therefore we went to Shadows-on-the-Teche, a plantation house with a big garden on a bayou. We didn't have time to do the whole tour, but we at least got to walk around the grounds and take in the pretty flowers and the oddly juxtaposed pagan-and-Catholic sculpture collection. There were a bunch of obviously half-naked Olympian god-type figures decorating their tits in preparation for a presumptive impending bacchanal…beside some very pious-looking Catholic saints.
“Hey Razzy,” said LL Cool Jew. “Name that saint for me.” She pointed at a particularly stern man with a long beard.
“Pretty sure that’s St. Peter. Simon Peter denied Jesus’s SOG (SOG=son of God) status three times to your messiah-killing, Barabbas-freeing mob of Druish agitators before the cock crowed but still managed to win appointment as the first pope. He’s like the OG Catholic, dude. The rock upon which Josh Christ built his church.”
“How can you tell?” asked LL Cool Jew.
“Well, he looks stern and humorless, and obviously too pious to shave. St. Peter was kind of wild before Jesus tapped him to be the original HBIC of the Cat-lickers, but once Jesus died and rose again he became a joyless old curmudgeon just like Benedixteen. He even insisted on being crucified UPSIDE DOWN once the Romans started getting their persecution on, because he didn’t think anyone should have the luxury of being crucified right-side up like JC. This guy’s demeanor looks and sounds about right.” Then I thought better of it and came clean about my ability to identify Catholic saints based on their unlabeled random statuary. “And the local parish church down the street is called St. Peter’s.”
“Pretty sure that’s St. Peter. Simon Peter denied Jesus’s SOG (SOG=son of God) status three times to your messiah-killing, Barabbas-freeing mob of Druish agitators before the cock crowed but still managed to win appointment as the first pope. He’s like the OG Catholic, dude. The rock upon which Josh Christ built his church.”
“How can you tell?” asked LL Cool Jew.
“Well, he looks stern and humorless, and obviously too pious to shave. St. Peter was kind of wild before Jesus tapped him to be the original HBIC of the Cat-lickers, but once Jesus died and rose again he became a joyless old curmudgeon just like Benedixteen. He even insisted on being crucified UPSIDE DOWN once the Romans started getting their persecution on, because he didn’t think anyone should have the luxury of being crucified right-side up like JC. This guy’s demeanor looks and sounds about right.” Then I thought better of it and came clean about my ability to identify Catholic saints based on their unlabeled random statuary. “And the local parish church down the street is called St. Peter’s.”
We went down to the bayou to see if we could find any nutria, but didn't see any. And speaking of nutria, it was time for our trip to the swamps for a tour. I was sure we would see some.
Our guide was this guy named Walter "Butch" Guchereaux, who not only knew an insane amount about the history, flora, fauna, and current legal status of the swamp he showed us around, he had the world's greatest accent. He was also very sweet and assured me that he would keep us a safe distance from any spiderwebs.
I got right down to business and asked if we could go to wherever the nutria reside.
"Nutria? You're not gonna see any. If you can see da nutrias, da gators can see 'em too." Then he advised me that about ten years ago, you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a nutria. However, the nutria population started disappearing coincident with the proliferation of the local alligator population. I can see how that would be, because while we didn't see any nutria, we saw two gigantic fucking alligators.
After about an hour of tooling around checking out birds and reptiles and listening to Butch's corny jokes ("What do you call da most lonedsome bayou? Bayou self") and his stories about how he built a self-sustaining duck blind out of toppled cypress trees ("I got my own ecosystem goin' here"), we headed to Lafayette to the hostel where we were staying. Initially when LL Cool Jew told me she booked us a room at a "hostel" for our night in Cajun country, I was extremely skeptical. "HOSTEL, dude? I don't stay in hostels." I reserve nothing but scorn and disdain for backpacker types, and the idea of sharing a communal shower with them is entirely reprehensible.
"Dude, we have a private room with a private bath. Do you think my JAP-tastic ass would stay in a backpacker-type place?" she said. I had to concede that point. If I'm adamant about my "no backpackers" policy, LL Cool Jew's unwillingness is probably greater by a logarithmic order of magnitude. However, we couldn't check in for another hour, so we went to get a cold beer at the artfaggy joint across the street, a bar appropriately called "Artmosphere."
We were surprised to see such a hipster place in Lafayette, Louisiana (home of the UL Ragin' Cajuns), but we couldn't complain about the $3 beers, even if there were some vintage t-shirt-wearing tools smoking hookahs there.
Then we went to dinner at Prejean's, this Cajun restaurant where we proceeded to consume our weight in fried seafood. LL Cool Jew wasn't kidding when she said their smoked duck and andouille gumbo was one of the most mind-blowing thing she'd ever eaten. We also ordered an oyster bake that was a little disappointing. When our (hot and obviously knowing it) waiter put it in front of us, the whole thing was covered with bechamel sauce and I made a crack about how I like to eat things that are splattered with hot white sauce, he just gave us our plate with a shifty look. LL Cool Jew ate one of the oysters Rockefeller, and I went for the other type of oyster.
"You have a weird look on your face," she observed.
"It's a weird oyster," I said. "The sauce is like...creamy tomato. It's odd."
LL Cool Jew tried one then. "Dude, with the tasso in it, it tastes like...I don't know...some kind of fake-me-out Italian food. It's like a piece of pizza or something."
"Pizza oysters!" I said. "It's like the Prejean's equivalent of a New York slice."
"Dude, pizza oysters made with fucking Prego," observed LL Cool Jew.
Apart from the disappointing pizza oysters, we otherwise gorged ourselves on fried fish and shrimp, and jammed for a while to the weird Zydeco band of old men who took the stage with their accordions and fiddles.
After we were about to burst open from overeating, we decided that instead of dessert we'd opt for some liquid to wash down our dinner. To avoid having to drive, we went back to the Artmosphere.
Within five minutes we met a bunch of dudes who invited us back to the hostel for some--ahem--herbal cigarettes. One of these guys, a good-natured recent traveler to Amsterdam, told a hilarious story about how he was in the Air Force right after the Iraq War started, he met Senator John McCain, who--according to him--wrote on his tent "Give 'em hell! Fuckin' Senator John McCain."
"Dude, did he really write 'Fuckin' Senator John McCain?'" LL Cool Jew demanded. "Because that would be awesome." Unfortunately, the narrator had just added the "fuckin'" for emphasis.
We also met Fuckin' Senator John McCain's friends. First there was Carlos, a "documentary photographer" (translation: unemployed vagabond with a camera who gets laid more when he says he's a documentary photographer), who wouldn't stop marveling that "it's amazing to meet not one, but TWO women who have read a book."
"We've both read more than one, too," I assured him. LL Cool Jew was rolling her eyes. We promised him a ride to New Orleans the next day but bailed two hours early so we didn't have to listen to him raving about what he considered an abnormal amount of female literacy. We did, however, reap the benefits of his photography skills:
Rounding out our group of new friends was Brett, an aw-shucks type of fella who kept trying very, very unsuccessfully to hit on myself and LL Cool Jew by laying on the country bumpkin sweetness thick. He even went so far as to ask if I could take him inside and teach him how to use the internet because he's "not familiar with the technologies" (I declined). He looked like a cross between Tom Selleck and Matthew McConaughey, and it's fitting that he is seen here in front of a "Sugar Cane Loading Zone" sign:
Then we went back to drink more at the Artmosphere, but were quickly lured away again by our new friends to their pal's "convenience store." John Pastore, proprietor of John's Quik Stop, welcomed us through a thick cloud of joint smoke to what is probably the world's most inconvenient convenience store. In addition to this place only being open between 3-7 pm, there appeared to be only one of each item he sold, and most of it was packaged foods and random trinkety crap manufactured by companies we'd never heard of. Check out his toy section:
"I went to the dollar store and bought one of everything!" said John proudly of his inventory.
"Dude, maybe you should go someplace different," said Fuckin' Senator John McCain. "Would you eat this?" He held up a can of "sliced beef, gravy, and rice" that I swear was dog food packaged for human consumption.
"Hell naw!" exclaimed John. "But that don't mean somebody won't!" He was very confident in his business model.
As befits my taste, I immediately went to the most expensive item in the store: the $25 alligator heads. I didn't buy them, but I did try to French them a little bit:
After another drink at the Artmosphere, LL Cool Jew and I passed out. She regaled me with the tale of how she got into it with this random Lebanese guy who joined our group at some point. LL Cool Jew had received a great deal of curious inquiries into her ethnicity from the locals. At one point, Brett asked her "Now what's y'all's extraction?"
"I'm Jewish," LL Cool Jew replied.
"Jewish! Well how about that? I thought y'all was a gypsy!" I'm glad she's not a gypsy, because "LL Cool Gypsy" just doesn't have the same ring to it.
LL Cool Jew had been fielding queries regarding her possible Judeo-Gypsy status all night, so it wasn't a big shock when this Lebanese guy wanted to know. Unfortunately, he reacted a little different than Brett's "I thought y'all was a gypsy" response. He was apparently telling her that halvah could be had at the Cedars Deli nearby.
"It is Jewish-style halvah, though," he said, grimacing. "You aren't Jewish, are you?"
"As a matter of fact, I am," said LL Cool Jew.
He scowled at her and said condescendingly, "My people have been enjoying halvah for two thousand years." LL Cool Jew said that it was apparent he was trying to pull out some "oh, SNAP, Jews!" moves and refused to be baited into saying something that would confirm her status as a Zionist pig to him. I thought she should have been like "Oh yeah? Well, my people have been enjoying halvah for 5,678 years!" or something like that, but she apparently just gave him a withering look and announced she was ready to retire to our quarters.
The next morning we got up, blazed out of the hostel before Carlos could meet us and tag along all day complimenting our intelligence, and got a breakfast at a place that exemplified exactly why there are so many fat people in Louisiana. Check out the guy behind LL Cool Jew:
Then we proceeded to drive around for a bit. We were reminded that, in spite of places like the Artmosphere peddling hookahs and weird artwork, there were still plenty of people more in line with what I would expect...CLASSY:
I totally am getting a sign like that for my dad to put on the back of his "rig," along with a pair of truck balls for his trailer hitch.
Then we got some beef jerky and went to the Tabasco factory on Avery Island. We saw more alligators there, along with more birds, and a shitload of bamboo. It was pretty but uneventful, and we proved two things I already know: that I hate Tabasco (I'm a Tapatio/Marie Sharp's kind of girl) and that LL Cool Jew can still flash a mean lesbian gang sign even though she's gone the breeder route in terms of life partner selection.
Once we got back to New Orleans, it was again eating time. I think I nearly killed myself trying to lay waste to a soft-shelled crab po' boy. Then we went to LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's local pub for trivia night. They do this every Monday, and we were sure that between all of us, we would be able to lay waste to the competition. Unfortunately, that dream was shattered when LL Cool Jew earned the pub dunce cap by identifying the opening line of The Godfather as being from the film Yentl. The look on BigBagel's face in this picture says it all.
We may not have won trivia night, but we did have a really fitting team name. We decided that, in keeping with 50% of the team's Smith College traditions, we'd go with Current Events in Lesbianism as inspiration, and called ourselves "the Lohan-Ronson Invitational Clambake." Even more fitting, I've realized that Lil' Darlin' and I actually look like Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson. It's unfortunate that I have to be the Samantha Ronson of the pair, but you can't win 'em all.
And even more fitting than that is the fact that when we got back to Casa de Cool Jew-Bagel, Lil' Darlin' shared a bed with me and requested that she be permitted to "play with (my) boobs." Of course I gave my consent, and raised her an "as long as you're at it, you want to fuck?" Unfortunately, she has a boyfriend she's actually loyal to, so our imitation of LiLo and SamRo remained superficial. I did get my tits felt up, though, which ruled.
The last day of our trip was one of the most highly anticipated: our journey to Kentwood, Louisiana to see the Britney Jean Spears museum. Actually, the museum was called "The Kentwood Historical and Cultural Museum," but apart from a memorial to Kentwood's brave military people, it was all Britney.
One of the greatest disappointments of my trip was the fact that no photos were allowed. I can't imagine why, because you would think that they could use the publicity. When I signed the guest book, I noted that we were the first visitors in 3 days. Hazel, the ancient woman whose threadbare coat identified her as the "curater" of the museum, didn't slack in attempting to give us a show. She led us into a dark room, then asked if we were "ready," and flipped a switch. There, before us, was a model of the stage from Britney's first tour that some dude in Oregon spent six months making.
"I was thinkin' his wife should get the credit for puttin' up with him fiddlin' with it for six months," said Hazel. LL Cool Jew gave me a look that plainly said, "Sha right, like the gay dude who made this has a wife."
Then we checked out the memorabilia collection. It was really impressive. They had Britney's "Best New Artist" American Music Award, her first MTV video music award (pre-Moonman), her Mickey Mouse Club jacket, and what looked like all of her platinum records. They also had a wall of Britney magazine covers, including a hilariously ironic one that said, "Britney Spears: Why I'm Waiting." Probably the weirdest, most disturbing thing was the hermetically sealed room containing all of Britney's childhood bedroom furniture and Madame Alexander dolls, with a picture in the foreground of Britney from the most Lolita-ed out Rolling Stone photo shoot of all time.
"That's like some gross old pedophile's fantasy jerk closet," LL Cool Jew whispered to me in a tone low enough not to be heard by Hazel as she tottered around.
We consented then to a tour of the military memorial, and listened to Hazel yammer on about how Taylor Horn, another local entertainer who already looks like a total whore at 15, was going to be a big star. It became apparent that the people of Kentwood are trying to divorce themselves from Britney, and even Hazel was probably hoping to replace the BJS section with a Taylor Horn section. We also noted that the "Welcome to Kentwood: Home of Britney Spears" sign that was supposed to greet us had been taken down ("that's cold" observed LL Cool Jew). It's pretty rich that the people of Kentwood think they're too good for even crazy, Frapp-slurping Brit Brit. Kentwood was probably one of the trashiest towns we went through. Half the buildings in town were abandoned and collapsing. The entire place seemed in a state of gradual decay. They didn't even have a Wal-Mart or a Winn-Dixie (although to our delight, they did have a Sonic).
After our tour, in the course of listening to Hazel ramble about Kentwood, its residents, and things we should do during our visit (in which she very amusingly told LL Cool Jew to "take your Yankee to Nyla's Burger Basket for some fried catfish"), we managed to get directions to Serenity, the Spears family "estate." LL Cool Jew and I immediately went there, and drove by several times trying to discreetly take a picture and hopefully see Jamie-Lynn's pregnant ass waddling around.
Sadly, there were no Jamie-Lynn sightings, so we just grabbed more drinks from Sonic and headed back to New Orleans to watch some Lord of the Rings for old time's sake. LL Cool Jew and I watch LOTR movies when we have nothing better to do. It was a great way to end a vacation that was entirely too short.
I have to go back as soon as possible, because I didn't do nearly as many things as I wanted to do. Specifically, I didn't eat any nutria! I didn't even SEE any nutria. Every time we passed any type of swampy body of water, I was scanning eagerly for those little guys swimming around, but it turns out that they are pretty elusive for an invasive species. Obviously, I MUST at least see nutria at some point even if I can't eat them, so I'll have to go back.
"Nutria? You're not gonna see any. If you can see da nutrias, da gators can see 'em too." Then he advised me that about ten years ago, you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a nutria. However, the nutria population started disappearing coincident with the proliferation of the local alligator population. I can see how that would be, because while we didn't see any nutria, we saw two gigantic fucking alligators.
After about an hour of tooling around checking out birds and reptiles and listening to Butch's corny jokes ("What do you call da most lonedsome bayou? Bayou self") and his stories about how he built a self-sustaining duck blind out of toppled cypress trees ("I got my own ecosystem goin' here"), we headed to Lafayette to the hostel where we were staying. Initially when LL Cool Jew told me she booked us a room at a "hostel" for our night in Cajun country, I was extremely skeptical. "HOSTEL, dude? I don't stay in hostels." I reserve nothing but scorn and disdain for backpacker types, and the idea of sharing a communal shower with them is entirely reprehensible.
"Dude, we have a private room with a private bath. Do you think my JAP-tastic ass would stay in a backpacker-type place?" she said. I had to concede that point. If I'm adamant about my "no backpackers" policy, LL Cool Jew's unwillingness is probably greater by a logarithmic order of magnitude. However, we couldn't check in for another hour, so we went to get a cold beer at the artfaggy joint across the street, a bar appropriately called "Artmosphere."
"You have a weird look on your face," she observed.
"It's a weird oyster," I said. "The sauce is like...creamy tomato. It's odd."
LL Cool Jew tried one then. "Dude, with the tasso in it, it tastes like...I don't know...some kind of fake-me-out Italian food. It's like a piece of pizza or something."
"Pizza oysters!" I said. "It's like the Prejean's equivalent of a New York slice."
"Dude, pizza oysters made with fucking Prego," observed LL Cool Jew.
Apart from the disappointing pizza oysters, we otherwise gorged ourselves on fried fish and shrimp, and jammed for a while to the weird Zydeco band of old men who took the stage with their accordions and fiddles.
Within five minutes we met a bunch of dudes who invited us back to the hostel for some--ahem--herbal cigarettes. One of these guys, a good-natured recent traveler to Amsterdam, told a hilarious story about how he was in the Air Force right after the Iraq War started, he met Senator John McCain, who--according to him--wrote on his tent "Give 'em hell! Fuckin' Senator John McCain."
We also met Fuckin' Senator John McCain's friends. First there was Carlos, a "documentary photographer" (translation: unemployed vagabond with a camera who gets laid more when he says he's a documentary photographer), who wouldn't stop marveling that "it's amazing to meet not one, but TWO women who have read a book."
"Dude, maybe you should go someplace different," said Fuckin' Senator John McCain. "Would you eat this?" He held up a can of "sliced beef, gravy, and rice" that I swear was dog food packaged for human consumption.
"Hell naw!" exclaimed John. "But that don't mean somebody won't!" He was very confident in his business model.
As befits my taste, I immediately went to the most expensive item in the store: the $25 alligator heads. I didn't buy them, but I did try to French them a little bit:
After another drink at the Artmosphere, LL Cool Jew and I passed out. She regaled me with the tale of how she got into it with this random Lebanese guy who joined our group at some point. LL Cool Jew had received a great deal of curious inquiries into her ethnicity from the locals. At one point, Brett asked her "Now what's y'all's extraction?"
"I'm Jewish," LL Cool Jew replied.
"Jewish! Well how about that? I thought y'all was a gypsy!" I'm glad she's not a gypsy, because "LL Cool Gypsy" just doesn't have the same ring to it.
LL Cool Jew had been fielding queries regarding her possible Judeo-Gypsy status all night, so it wasn't a big shock when this Lebanese guy wanted to know. Unfortunately, he reacted a little different than Brett's "I thought y'all was a gypsy" response. He was apparently telling her that halvah could be had at the Cedars Deli nearby.
"It is Jewish-style halvah, though," he said, grimacing. "You aren't Jewish, are you?"
"As a matter of fact, I am," said LL Cool Jew.
He scowled at her and said condescendingly, "My people have been enjoying halvah for two thousand years." LL Cool Jew said that it was apparent he was trying to pull out some "oh, SNAP, Jews!" moves and refused to be baited into saying something that would confirm her status as a Zionist pig to him. I thought she should have been like "Oh yeah? Well, my people have been enjoying halvah for 5,678 years!" or something like that, but she apparently just gave him a withering look and announced she was ready to retire to our quarters.
The next morning we got up, blazed out of the hostel before Carlos could meet us and tag along all day complimenting our intelligence, and got a breakfast at a place that exemplified exactly why there are so many fat people in Louisiana. Check out the guy behind LL Cool Jew:
Then we got some beef jerky and went to the Tabasco factory on Avery Island. We saw more alligators there, along with more birds, and a shitload of bamboo. It was pretty but uneventful, and we proved two things I already know: that I hate Tabasco (I'm a Tapatio/Marie Sharp's kind of girl) and that LL Cool Jew can still flash a mean lesbian gang sign even though she's gone the breeder route in terms of life partner selection.
Once we got back to New Orleans, it was again eating time. I think I nearly killed myself trying to lay waste to a soft-shelled crab po' boy. Then we went to LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's local pub for trivia night. They do this every Monday, and we were sure that between all of us, we would be able to lay waste to the competition. Unfortunately, that dream was shattered when LL Cool Jew earned the pub dunce cap by identifying the opening line of The Godfather as being from the film Yentl. The look on BigBagel's face in this picture says it all.
The last day of our trip was one of the most highly anticipated: our journey to Kentwood, Louisiana to see the Britney Jean Spears museum. Actually, the museum was called "The Kentwood Historical and Cultural Museum," but apart from a memorial to Kentwood's brave military people, it was all Britney.
"I was thinkin' his wife should get the credit for puttin' up with him fiddlin' with it for six months," said Hazel. LL Cool Jew gave me a look that plainly said, "Sha right, like the gay dude who made this has a wife."
Then we checked out the memorabilia collection. It was really impressive. They had Britney's "Best New Artist" American Music Award, her first MTV video music award (pre-Moonman), her Mickey Mouse Club jacket, and what looked like all of her platinum records. They also had a wall of Britney magazine covers, including a hilariously ironic one that said, "Britney Spears: Why I'm Waiting." Probably the weirdest, most disturbing thing was the hermetically sealed room containing all of Britney's childhood bedroom furniture and Madame Alexander dolls, with a picture in the foreground of Britney from the most Lolita-ed out Rolling Stone photo shoot of all time.
"That's like some gross old pedophile's fantasy jerk closet," LL Cool Jew whispered to me in a tone low enough not to be heard by Hazel as she tottered around.
We consented then to a tour of the military memorial, and listened to Hazel yammer on about how Taylor Horn, another local entertainer who already looks like a total whore at 15, was going to be a big star. It became apparent that the people of Kentwood are trying to divorce themselves from Britney, and even Hazel was probably hoping to replace the BJS section with a Taylor Horn section. We also noted that the "Welcome to Kentwood: Home of Britney Spears" sign that was supposed to greet us had been taken down ("that's cold" observed LL Cool Jew). It's pretty rich that the people of Kentwood think they're too good for even crazy, Frapp-slurping Brit Brit. Kentwood was probably one of the trashiest towns we went through. Half the buildings in town were abandoned and collapsing. The entire place seemed in a state of gradual decay. They didn't even have a Wal-Mart or a Winn-Dixie (although to our delight, they did have a Sonic).
After our tour, in the course of listening to Hazel ramble about Kentwood, its residents, and things we should do during our visit (in which she very amusingly told LL Cool Jew to "take your Yankee to Nyla's Burger Basket for some fried catfish"), we managed to get directions to Serenity, the Spears family "estate." LL Cool Jew and I immediately went there, and drove by several times trying to discreetly take a picture and hopefully see Jamie-Lynn's pregnant ass waddling around.
I have to go back as soon as possible, because I didn't do nearly as many things as I wanted to do. Specifically, I didn't eat any nutria! I didn't even SEE any nutria. Every time we passed any type of swampy body of water, I was scanning eagerly for those little guys swimming around, but it turns out that they are pretty elusive for an invasive species. Obviously, I MUST at least see nutria at some point even if I can't eat them, so I'll have to go back.
Oh, and PS...LL Cool Jew thanks all the readers requesting pictures of her tits, but her reply to your request is "NO WAY IN FUCKING HELL."
Labels: BigBagel, Britney Spears, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dirrty Dirrty, gluttony, LL Cool Jew
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that's ok, i'll just beat off to that picture of her cleavage, and imagine her voice saying "NO WAY IN FUCKING HELL"
just kidding! i'm going to beat off to the beads pic and think about you and lil darlin.
just kidding! i'm going to beat off to the beads pic and think about you and lil darlin.
# posted by 
: 6/12/2008 7:57 PM
: 6/12/2008 7:57 PM 
Razzy, Its nice to see you two enjoying yourselves. You've both smoking hot. :0
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# posted by : 6/17/2008 2:19 AM
: 6/17/2008 2:19 AM Links to this post:
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