This season, approximately 80% of the New Orleans' opponents have correctly predicted dat dey would be among the large group of teams who would prove capable of besting the suddenly lowly Hornets, and I suspect most of the remainder at least thought they were going to win.
Such was the case with the unfortunate Minnesota Timberwolves, who couldn't quite hold off a hornets team that had been granted an extra dose of patriotic fervor on "military appreciation night", which appeared to consist exclusively of dressing the cheerleader in ill thought-out khaki bikinis. All six Hornets fans in attendance were suitably excited about their (rare) victory over a superior team (very common).
Winding back a bit... Nawlins is definitively on the manic side of the United States' bi-polar relationship with the demon drink. Not only are they allowed to sell it, as will not be the case in some parts of the South - Lynchberg, for instance, whose name serves as a reminder of the potentially dangerous consequences of getting a bunch of economically disappointed white folks liquored-up - but they can mix you some of the finest craft cocktails this side of our lounge room and then dejectedly pour them into a plastic "go cup" so that you can get hammered without missing a moment of the action.
And such action! Bourbon Street, in particular, is well paid to think of itself as the vomit repository that never sleeps (in close competition with the tube, were it to stay open past midnight), even if that means half-heatedly yelling "party!!" at tables of Eastern European tourists just trying to have a chat over their cups of hurricane-flavoured syrup. Four of us were able to dominate a dance floor during the not-much-in-demand 2-3pm shift (following a n\helpful round of test tube shot masquerading as "cocktails", to a version of Jay Z's "on to the next one" so bowdlerized that even "cojones" had been bleeped out, and a version of Mystikal's "shake dat ass" so unbowlderized that the title is the only portion I can reproduce in this (allegedly) polite company.
Your intrepid investigators were also able to put a significant dent in the seasonal crawfish stocks, sample the uniquely creole basketball treat of nachos in a spinach and artichoke sauce, accompany an eldery lady on the maracas and pay $5 to listen to an elderly black man complain about his life, despite the fact that such experiences can be had for free on any corner in the city.
The night ended with a suitably ironic pabst blue ribbon and a well-earned collapse into a giant, American -sized bed.
(Days since last food poisoning/lost items incident: One)
Such was the case with the unfortunate Minnesota Timberwolves, who couldn't quite hold off a hornets team that had been granted an extra dose of patriotic fervor on "military appreciation night", which appeared to consist exclusively of dressing the cheerleader in ill thought-out khaki bikinis. All six Hornets fans in attendance were suitably excited about their (rare) victory over a superior team (very common).
Winding back a bit... Nawlins is definitively on the manic side of the United States' bi-polar relationship with the demon drink. Not only are they allowed to sell it, as will not be the case in some parts of the South - Lynchberg, for instance, whose name serves as a reminder of the potentially dangerous consequences of getting a bunch of economically disappointed white folks liquored-up - but they can mix you some of the finest craft cocktails this side of our lounge room and then dejectedly pour them into a plastic "go cup" so that you can get hammered without missing a moment of the action.
And such action! Bourbon Street, in particular, is well paid to think of itself as the vomit repository that never sleeps (in close competition with the tube, were it to stay open past midnight), even if that means half-heatedly yelling "party!!" at tables of Eastern European tourists just trying to have a chat over their cups of hurricane-flavoured syrup. Four of us were able to dominate a dance floor during the not-much-in-demand 2-3pm shift (following a n\helpful round of test tube shot masquerading as "cocktails", to a version of Jay Z's "on to the next one" so bowdlerized that even "cojones" had been bleeped out, and a version of Mystikal's "shake dat ass" so unbowlderized that the title is the only portion I can reproduce in this (allegedly) polite company.
Your intrepid investigators were also able to put a significant dent in the seasonal crawfish stocks, sample the uniquely creole basketball treat of nachos in a spinach and artichoke sauce, accompany an eldery lady on the maracas and pay $5 to listen to an elderly black man complain about his life, despite the fact that such experiences can be had for free on any corner in the city.
(Days since last food poisoning/lost items incident: One)
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