Pleasantly Plump Tuesday

Many people think of Mardi Gras as a day for debauchery and drunkenness. Others look at it as one last day of preparation for Lent. All of those people are wrong. If you're looking for the real reasons we all strip down and beg for beads while imbibing as much alcohol as we possibly can (and sometimes exceeding that limit), then you've come to the write place (do you see what I did there? I made an author joke). Here without further ado:

The Secret Origin of Mardi Gras: A Drunken Rogue Investigative Special Report

And truthfully who better to investigate the origins of "the little festival that could" than the Drunken Rogue himself? I set out to get to the bottom of this story (preferably in time for the best parades), but to do that, I'd have to make my way to the Big Easy. But Britney's bodyguards were uninterested in my attempts to interview her, saying that everybody's favorite bald pop-star-gone-bad didn't know anything about Mardi Gras, so I was on my own. I'm a loner by nature so Mrs. Spears/Federline's rejection didn't derail me.

I decided the best place to start my investigation was with the name of the festival itself. What's with the silent "s"? I wasn't sure, but that sounded like the kind of thing Canadians are very fond of doing so I called my contact in the Canadian Government, Doug McKenzie. Through the "ey's" and "aboot's" I was able to discern that Doug's position as driver for Niagara Falls tour buses, while making him eligible for Canada's splendid health-care plan, didn't clue him into the secrets of Mardi Gras or the importance of the silent "s". I called him a useless Canadian and he called me a "hoser" (which I think is Canadian for great American) and we said goodbye.

Doug had intimated that since I lived in Louisiana, it might be easier to find out about Mardi Gras and its mysterious origin by speaking to those around me, so I asked my neighbor, Abdulla, the Ugandan exchange student currently pursuing a degree in Biomedical Engineering. He told me that in Uganda they celebrate "Garunda Bicknalla" (that's spelled phoenetically) or "The Festival of Grasses." The villagers all collect their favorite weeds and non-flowering plants, throw them in a big pot together, burn them and inhale the smoke of them all until they pass out. This is generally followed by "Barova Cumbillis" which roughly translates to "rebuild your hut after the massive fire day." That's sort of like Ash Wednesday, but it didn't seem to be connected to our own Gras(s) festival.

That's when it hit me. I had been stumbling around deep in thought and I didn't even notice that the "Do not Walk" sign was flashing. Lucky for me, the Dodge Neon is just not made for pedestrian homicide. I left a much bigger dent in it than it did in me. While lying on the asphalt recovering from my brush with death and mediocre automobile construction, I heard the voice of an angel...well not really. I heard the voice of a coonass. But since I was looking for the origin of a Cajun festival, that was a good thing.

His name was Boudreaux (though I probably left out some vowels in the spelling), and he was a recent New Orleans transplant. After losing his home and job in Hurricane Katrina, Boudreaux fled to the higher ground of North Louisiana. He didn't have an excuse for bringing the Dodge Neon with him, but he did give me a few tidbits about the origin of Mardi Gras. Apparently all the talk of a connection to Catholicism was in fact true. Boudreaux told me that it began as an informal party for parishioners to indulge (and overindulge) in whatever they were giving up for Lent. While not exactly in the spirit of denial and sacrifice that the Church would prefer, the idea of storing up a month's worth of chocolate/beer/sex etc. in one night (now more like a month's) worth of partying had become very popular. Imagine that, overindulgence is popular, maybe that's why we are the most obese nation in the world.

While I had expected to find some deep dark secret about pagan rituals and a history crossing cover-up (I'd already sold the idea to a publisher as a "Davinci Code" meets "A Streetcar Named Desire" type novel), instead I'd found a new friend (and some nifty Ugandan Grass Festival T-shirts). Boudreaux and I decided to celebrate Mardi Gras (that silent "s" still bothers me) together. Me swinging cheap plastic beads over my head, and him flashing the cars that passed my front porch screaming "Trow me sumpthin' mister!". At least that's what it sounded like he was saying, the combination of accent and alcohol made it rather difficult to decipher his words. We even urinated on someone else's driveway before passing out in our lawn chairs. Boudreaux said it felt almost like home.

So my investigative research might have been a little bit of overkill since the answer turned out to be the one I already knew (I should have known better than to question the Catholics), but because of my investigation I got to live through a real live New Orleans' Mardi Gras...but you know, not in New Orleans...and without the floats. Now Boudreaux and I are looking forward to sharing our next cultural holiday, St. Patrick's Day. I fully intend to intend to share all of my extensive knowledge of Irish culture with him. We're going to eat French Fries, drink beer, burn the snakes out of the backyard (just like St. Patrick) and curse the Italians for taking all of our jobs. It's gonna be a great St. Patty's Day!

Happy Mardi Grass, everybody! And Buenamios Garunda Bicknalla, Abdullah!