Although most people associate Mardi Gras with New Orleans, it actually began in Mobile, AL some fifty years before the Crescent City was first settled. It is an Americanized version of an old French festival, but it has lost most of its original religious meaning.

Mardi Gras, which translates into Fat Tuesday, was a day of feasting that preceded Lent, a period of abstaining from certain pleasures. It was supposed to be the last big bang before the spiritual cleansing period that lasted until Easter Sunday. Truth be known it dates back to pre-Christian Celtic Pagans just like most of our other religious holidays.

The Mardi Gras season brings over half a million visitors to the Port City during its two weeks of revelry. Marching bands from all over the state of Alabama travel to Mobile to enhance the atmosphere of this festive time. Vendors roam the streets selling their side show folly. Costume clad aristocracy and blue-collar commoners alike come to forget the troubles of the real world, and lose themselves in the carnival of the streets.
 

Willie DeGaulf was a common oil rig worker from Citronelle. Fourteen days a month he lived on a tiny man-made island in the Mississippi Sound. The other fourteen days he spent knocking around his home town. His off time was mostly wasted gossiping at the barber shop, or sitting at the Skillet Burger swapping lies with people he had known since he was old enough to talk.Every year someone would ask Willie the same question, "Hey Willie, you gonna go to Mardi Gras this year?" This time the honor fell to Henry "June Bug" Pritchit. The crowd sat back for what was sure to be an entertaining tangent.

"How many times you boys gonna ask me that same stupid question? You know I ain't got no use for no Catholic sin fest. My momma raised me to be a good church goin' boy and you know you can't spend no two weeks gettin' drunk and stoned and everthin' else they do at the crazy thing and still show your face at Sunday church meetin'.

"If you ask me they ought to do away with that dang Marty Graw, and have a fishin' tournament, or revival or somthin'. It jes don't make no since to me how perfectly normal men and women can go down there dressed like morons yelling 'Moon Pie! Moon Pie! Moon Pie!' like some snot-nosed yungin'. You think they'd have better thangs to do wif there time. Their jes not that bright!

"Plus I hate crowds, I jes hate 'em. Man I wouldn’t get caught dead hangin' out down there wif all them weirdoes and freaks! There's no tellin' what kinda trouble a man could get into. I jes don't see the point in drivin' forty-five minutes to Mobile, spendin' thirty minutes lookin' for a place to park, and fifteen minutes walkin' up and down the street to watch a twenty minute parade.

"And then there's all them drunks! Can't walk five feet without havin’ to avoid some teenager doubled over cuz they can't handle their booze. Cryin' for their Momma and swearin' they'll never drink again. You know good and well they'll be right back out there the next night doin' it all over again.

"And kids every where! Short kids, fat kids, ugly kids, rich kids! There always runnin' under foot, and spillin' their food on ya, and cryin' about how they can't see the floats! It's enough to make a normal man flip clean out!"

Willie was a well respected, and feared man in town. He stood 6 feet 2 inches tall, and was pushing 240 pounds. Above his mouth was a bushy, caterpillar like mustache, and he wore his greasy, brown hair in a style that hadn't been popular since 1985. His mannerism was that of an easy-going sort, until he started drinking tequila.

Willie had once beaten three fellow oil workers half to death while on a Cuervo Gold tirade. All the while displaying a Manson-like grin declaring to all that, "It ain't nothin' for me to kill a man!" The men were ultimately saved by a sudden craving for a biscuit from Hardee's. He now made a point of staying away from the South of the Border liquor.

June Bug let out a hardy barrel laugh. He took pleasure in setting people off. He was known as a prankster and never passed up a chance to further his reputation, but he knew when to stop when it came to Willie. A slight man, June Bug never wanted to incur the wrath of Willie DeGaulf, or Willy Shoemaker for that matter. June Bug was well adept at getting his friends into scrapes. He would then turn tail as soon as the first punch was thrown. He had no use for fighting when it involved him.

"What you laughing at, June Bug?" Willie snarled.

Pritchit straightened up, "Uh, I was rememberin' a joke I heard at the paper mill yesterday. You wanna go see a hockey game next week?"

Willie was not as dumb as he feigned. He had scored a 28 on the ACT before he decided to forgo college to take a job offer with Shell Oil. He knew that the fellas only brought up the subject to watch him make a scene, and in the true spirit of friendship he obliged. Each year he would get a little louder, and a little angrier.

Willie spit out the toothpick he was chewing, "Who they playin'?"

"Don't know, but as long as they's a fight who cares?"

The fellas were a group of high school buddies who'd stuck together through graduation, marriages, children, and divorces. The undisputed leader was of coarse Willie DeGaulf, with June Bug as first officer and instigator of trouble. The other members were Tyler Muldune, the brothers Roy and Lonny Partane, and Junior Box. Junior was a Mowa Indian. The Mowas weren't recognized by the Federal government as an official tribe of Indians until the late twentieth century. They were the descendants of a Creek band that had intermarried with freed black slaves after the Civil War.

The five were well known around Citronelle because of there sophomoric antics, which the town folk patently thought to be immature for men in their thirties. All and all they were deemed harmless by the Police, and thought to be good neighbors who were always there in times of need

Downtown Mobile was a glow with the sounds of Mardi Gras. Kinetic energy flowed through the air like a scent. The night was crisp and cool with no threat of rain. Marching bands danced their way through the concourse, blasting away at the latest Top 40 hits. Barker's calls rang out, urging people to buy this or that. The aroma of boiled shrimp, pizza, and gyros mingled with the senses.

That Saturday was one of the most popular parades of the season, the Mystics of Time. As the famous dragon floats snaked their way down Government St. the fellas, minus DeGaulf, were gathered in front of Spanish Plaza. They had brought an ample supply of boiled peanuts, and were adorned in a rainbow of plastic beads. Each man carried a sack full of trinkets, coins, and Moon Pies. They had all taken turns throwing snap pops at the horses ridden by the Mobile County Sheriff's Posse, and each was in some strange costume.

June Bug wore a Navy uniform and called himself the "Commander and Chief of Love." Tyler was dressed like Aquaman, his favorite comic hero. Lonny and Roy were dressed like prison escapees, and Junior wore a Davey Crocket outfit.

As the fountain in the plaza performed its multi-colored water show, Junior made the analogy, "Hey, what this thing needs is a ballet dancer splashing through it!"

Before Junior could start, Lonny drew his attention towards Church Street, "Oh daddy, will you look at that blonde!"

A tall diva was slinking her way down the street, saffron curls jostling in the breeze. She wore a tight full length red dress with a slit that started at midriff and spread all the way down exposing her long tan leg. Her hips swung from side to side like a pendulum. She heard their cat calls, and blew them a kiss.

Tyler was the first to pose the question they were all thinking, "Do you think she means that?"

June Bug was beside himself at the thought, "Man, I love tall women."

Roy answered, "From your point of view they all look tall, June Bug."

"That's funny, Roy. Shouldn't you be somewhere helping your sister shave her back! Come on fellas, it's time to harass the nice lady."

Within seconds they were following her down the street, June Bug leading the pack, "Hey, stilts, you lookin fer a date?"

She answered without turning around, "Maybe." She had a deep rough voice that was sweet like molasses.

"How about five dates?" added Lonny Partane.

She kept on walking, "The more the merrier, huh?"

"You got that right, seet thang." June Bug was ready to go in for the kill, "Hey ,baby, how 'bout a little sugar to get the night rolling'?"

She stopped on a dime. Her hand stuck to her hip as she pondered the proposal. June Bug slowly sauntered up behind her. She was nearly six inches taller than he was. He stared at her outline in the moonlight and said, "Honey, you're all the woman I need."

Without warning she spun around, picked him up, and planted a big one right on his lips. She set him down and said, "...and more man than you could ever handle!"

June Bug was in shock. The others were in tears. Their amazon dream woman was really Willie DeGaulf dressed like Marilyn Monroe.

Oswald Phineas Polacek had been known by many nicknames. It did not take long for Polacek to become Pull-a-cock in the hands of mean spirited adolescents. The same was true for Phineas to Finny-ass or the ever popular Phineas Fatass. There was, however, one nickname that stood out among the rest: Lumpy.

It's origin was two-fold. Polacek possessed an exorbitant amount of trivia (AKA useless information). He had knowledge, valueless, voluminous, lumps of knowledge. Lumpy.

Polacek was also fat. He was five foot ten inches and three hundred thirteen and a half pounds of minutiae (that means minute details for those of you who are thesauraclly challenged). Osworld (fat joke) Polacek was huge. Troopers let him use car-pool lanes even when he was alone. He brought new meaning to the phrase party of one. Though an only-child his mother often referred to him as the boys. Lumpy.

Lumpy's girth was only diminished by his ego. A little knowledge goes a long way, little Lumpy goes too damned far. His zeal to enlighten usually transformed itself into a denigrating lecture that was sure to lead to altercation. Lumpy was not satisfied by simply being right, he wanted to belittle anyone foolish enough to contradict him. Polacek possessed a biting wit that he used to slice through the certitude of the most disciplined antagonist. His accuracy on any subject was as reliable as a local t.v. weather forecast, but he did not let that stop him. Phineas Fatass would stand his ground until his opponent relented.

As one might figure Lumpy had few friends, more accurately one friend, Tod. Tod was the nickname for Eric Virgil Williams Jr. It was self penned and enforced. Williams didn't like the name on his birth certificate, plus he thought that a man of his looks and culture should have a great name.

The cultivation of his byname took many avenues. First Williams tried Buck. Buck was robust, but too country and conjured images of Ned Beaty on the Ocoee River squealing like a pig. Next came Kip, but a guy named Kip could never be tough. Kip was the guy who gave up his lunch money so his underwear would stay inside his pants.

The search wound its way through Biff, Chaz, Spike, Meat, and even Pierre (he thought it offered an international flavor). Finally he decided on Tod. Tod was equally at home at the polo matches or at the tractor pull. Tod could cook a gourmet meal for a special evening with an aristocratic damsel. Tod always had your back in a bar room brawl. Tod was sensible, witty, handsome, and strong. The problem is Eric 'Tod' Williams was none of those.

Tod was somewhat attractive, but thought he was a stallion. Tod was an even six feet tall and weighed in at a soft one hundred ninety pounds, but envisioned himself as having a powerful physique. Tod was dull, dense, and exasperating, but pictured himself as fascinating, elegant, and charming.

Tod often preyed upon three types of women: fat and stupid, desperate and stupid, and fat, desperate, and stupid. It never failed to inflate his ego whenever he managed to coax one of these maids into bed with him. This feat was aided by the one boast Tod had with true merit, the size of his offshoot. Tod's crotch was the biggest reason that women slept with him(no pun intended).

Tod theorized that quantity also meant quality, but his partners rarely came back for seconds. He rationalized that they couldn't handle it. The truth was that once the novelty wore off they found themselves with a dull, pudgy, sweating moron lurching above them.

The bond that bound Lumpy and Tod's friendship was simple. There was no one else that could tolerate them for very long. Though their egos often clashed, they were rarely far apart.

They squandered time with several fruitless contests. Any time they met a crowd of people Tod would begin to flare his arrogance, and Lumpy would make Tod the punchline to every joke he made. Whenever Lumpy told Tod he had met a woman, Tod lied that he had slept with her in high school, or that she had flirted with him the last time Lumpy left the room. On the rare occasion that a girl actually liked Tod and wanted to have a relationship with him, it was certain that she would end up in bed with Lumpy. If Lumpy were about to score with a woman that wasn't Tod's girlfriend, Tod would mystically know about it and endeavor to disrupt the event.

Tod's opinion was that he was the only one aloud to get lucky. Lumpy's mission was to let everyone know that Tod was an idiot. On such foundations are friendships built.

Tod fired up his dysentery green ’71 Ford Grand Torino to give the engine ample time to warm up. A mere fifteen minutes later the engine ceased its weezing and settled into something vaguely resembling a smooth idle. Tod had tried to re-name his green Ford many different things like "The Tank" and "The Green Machine" but none of them ever took. In his mind, Tod had one of the fastest, sharpest looking cars in Middle Tennessee. Reality put a different spin on the story.

 Tod’s Ford was very much in style when it first rolled off the assembly line in 1970, but a quarter century had taken it’s toll. The rich olive color had faded and been stained with splotches of rust here and there. The big block 390 was still more than a match for any Japanese four cylinder, when it ran properly that is. Tod put a good two grand into his car each year, but rarely on upkeep. He had tinted the windows (three different times because he kept forgetting that Windex turns the tint purple), added glass packs, mag wheels, big fat tires on the back, and a grand total of $11,000 dollars in stereo equipment. Four times Tod had forgotten to lock his door at the movies and had all or most of his audio system removed. Lumpy opened the passenger door and spread his colossal tush across the Glad sinch-sak seat covers. 

"Hey, Turd, did you ever find out what was causing the stench in here?" Oswald ‘Lumpy’ Polacek asked, hiding his mirth beneath one of his many chins. "Yeah, I found a sardine in the glove compartment. I ain’t got no idear how it gawt there." Eric ‘Tod’ Williams replied, truly baffled. Polacek diverted the conversation before Tod could put two and two together, "Did you know that scientist have often been dumfounded by occasional rain storms where small fish or rocks fell from the sky along with the precipitation? There are several theories as to why this happens, but they remain just that, theories. If you ask me there are still a few laws of nature that we don’t fully comprehend."

 Confused by some of the large words in Lumpy’s vocabulary, Tod redirected the conversation to a topic he could if not understand al least follow, "I got laid last night." "Do I know him?" "Not funny, Buffet-boy. Her name was Ellen Porter. She was the girl who brought me my Old Fashioned combo at the Sonic. Dude," every time Williams started a sentence with ‘dude’ there would always be about a three-second pause before the statement continued, "she was sixteen. I almost feel bad…" Lumpy interrupted, "…but since you’re a low life that will bed anything that breathes, you’re not going to let it bother you." "Yeah." Tod laughed arrogantly, "Anywho, she was about five one and BUILT! If you look in the back seat you might find pieces of her virtue strewed about." Laughing still. Lumpy glanced over the seat, "All I see is an old pair of Depends and an empty jar of denture cream. Are you sure you didn’t pick up one of the blue haired goddesses that work third shift at Krispy Kreme?"

 "When was the last time you had sex, Pudgy? The Carter administration?" Tod replied curiously offended. Having been adequately debased, Lumpy changed the subject, "Did you know that Port Ellen is a village on the Isle of Islay, which lies off the coast of Scotland in the Irish Sea?"

The purpose of today’s road trip was to drive to Pascagoula, Mississippi where Tod’s niece, Edith, has just spent three weeks at a retreat with her church. Nine hours after leaving Nashville, Lumpy and Tod cross the Alabama State line into Mississippi. Tod observes the characteristics of the coastal plane that makes up this region of US geography and elegantly articulates the fruits of his contemplation, "Flat."

 Lumpy began to ramble, "Did you know, Toad, that the strongest hurricane to hit the US, at least since we began taking records, was Camille on August 17, 1969. It struck the Mississippi Gulf Coast and 140 people died foolishly refusing to believe that the storm posed any real threat. Many imbecilic residents threw ‘hurricane parties’ on the beach to celebrate the arrival of the maelstrom. I think we have finally found a place where you’ll fit in." "Real flat." Tod further emphasized.

As Tod’s Ford made its way down Hwy. 90 a series of signs began to capture Tod’s attention. The signs were hand painted and read: The Guilded Crock. Goula’s only casino! Frederic St. by the river. No youngins’. The Guilded Crock was less extravagant than the average pleasure palace that generally comes to one’s mind. It was not a castle or pyramid like you might find on the strip in Vegas, nor was it a showboat like the ones in Biloxi and Gulfport. 

The Crock was a half dozen refurbished houseboats linked by floating walkways and rope bridges. In the center of the buoyant ring of watercrafts was a pontoon boat with the canopy removed. It served as a bandstand complete with a Southern Rock band twanging out hits sure to make any good old boy’s blood boil. Center stage, mic in hand, was Kendra Foshee. Kendra was a flame haired songstress from Bay St. Louis. She was breasty, and flamboyant, and the current object of Lumpy’s passion.

 In the half hour that Tod had spent losing the gas money Edith’s mother had given them, Lumpy had met Kendra, fallen in love, married, and fathered the stereotypical 2.4 children the US Censor Bureau requires of citizens. All that was left was for him to do was actually speak with her. That time was fast approaching as the band ended it’s set. "Good afternoon, Madame, my name is Oswald Polacek and I thoroughly enjoyed your rendition of Barracuda. May I have the pleasure of buying you a drink?" Lumpy said as suavely as three hundred pound man could.

 "You ain’t from around here, are ya?" she nazzled seductively.

 "No, ma’am, my friend and I just arrived in town from Nashville and…"

 "You’re from Nashville? Are you with some record company or something? I’d do anything for a record contract." She eked out in nervous optimism.

 "Well, no I’m not with A record company, I'm with THE record company." Lumpy lied.

 "Liberty?"

 Lumpy pondered it a moment. 27 years in Nashville and you think he’d remember the name of at least one record company, "Uh huh, yeah." He said with confidence.

 "Oh gawd, are you here to hear us? Oh gawd say you are!" She was gyrating in a most appealing way.

 "Actually, I was just passing through. But it’s strange how I discover some people."

 She was like an addict on heroine, "Like who?"

 "Who?" Good question he thought to himself. You’d think that after nearly three decades in America’s Music City he’d remember the name of at least one artist, just one. "Rita Macintosh." He knew it was wrong the moment it came out of his mouth, "But you can guess what she changed her name to." he said to cover up his guffaw.

 "Oh my GAWD! Mr. Pol..."

 "Polacek."

 "Mr. Polacek, would you be interested in hearing me do some of my original songs? If you could, I’d be very grateful." Kendra said batting her fake eyelashes at him.

 Lumpy was beside himself, "Is there some where private we can go?"

 "There’s a broom closet this-a-way." She took him by the hand. Beads of sweat began to appear on his brow. Lumpy was winded just thinking of the sin about to take place.

 Lumpy and Kendra disappeared inside the darkness of the closet. Quickly Lumpy’s hands began exploring her curves as she nibbled tenderly at his nape. He breathed in her perfume as her lips pressed against his. She was submitting herself to his every desire all because of a simple little lie. Life was good.

 All of a sudden there came a knock at the door. Slowly the entrance opened allowing the light to spill in.

 "Hey, Lumpy, is that you? We gotta go, dude, I just lost all our money at the craps table and they’re threatening to call the cops on us if we don’t leave right now. Besides, my niece has been waiting at the Wal-Mart for nearly two hours, and we gotta be back at work at Pizza Paradise by 11 tomorrow morning, remember?"

 "Pizza Paradise?" Kendra asked buttoning her blouse.

 Tod responded with pride, "Yeah, we’re management trainees. Lumpy, here, makes almost 6 bucks an hour and is next in line for a store." Tod flashed a devious smile that hinted an IQ higher than what he usually possessed, "What were ya’ll doing?"