New Orleans. The Vegas of the South. Only in NOLA will you run into a grandma out on the town sipping on a Budweiser with her American flag t-shirt silently judging the gyrations of a burlesque dancer…you can’t make this shit up.
Nothing says Welcome to Boubon Street better than pure piss-soaked cement going through cycles of condensation and evaporation. Every night the cocktails of throw-up, sweat, beer, daiquiris, and that special blend of plastic used on those glossy beads waft through the air. A cesspool is nothing without a bunch of swimmers making their best of it. We don’t come to the pits of hell to stay on the edges. No, my friends. We dive tits first and see what comes of it. We peer and leer at those people until we become those people drunk at 3 am in the bar demanding to see someone’s titty piercing.
Yes. Welcome to Bourbon Street. Where you can’t help but wonder how this infrastructure ever survived a goddamned hurricane. These people were fucked from the beginning.