I never really get days off from work. My job isn’t one of those 9-5, three weeks vacation-type jobs that all you fatcats enjoy. You topfeeders know what I’m talking about–exhuberant trips with you caviar buffets and rainbow parties. High class call girls, chess, and champagne. But me… I basically get time off for holidays, and that’s it. So that’s why I had this brilliant idea over my holiday vacation…

I’m going down to New Orleans!!! The Big Easy. Bourbon Street. Jazz Junction. Titties in my face. You know, the good stuff. And what better time than New Years??!! It’s gonna be rowdy—fun, crazy, drunk—all that debauchery you see in movies, only realer. Tities actually IN my face. Hitting it. Brushing up against it. Whispering in my ear “Hello. Can you feel me?”

And best of all, my best friend from growing up lives down there now. I love this kid. His name is Adam (aka “Ad Dukes” aka “The Duke of Earl” aka “Balls over Baghdad”). And what’s better than free lodging and good times with the MF Dukes?

So I book the trip, and head there on Dec. 30th. Down to New Orleans to stay with the Duke. I am so pumped. I mean, I haven’t gone on a trip in like a year and a half. This was it. He had booked a balcony on Bourbon Street with an open bar for New Years Eve. So pumped.

Now I must note here, that my friend Dukes is a notorious party-pooper. Well, let me correct that–HE’S not so much a party-pooper, but he brings this curse of party-pooperness with him. When you go on a trip with him, you expect something very critical to go wrong. Something that ruins everyone’s time. This has been going on since high school. So much that we deemed a term for it long ago: “Adam Weekend”. (note: its pronounced “Aaaaaaddam Weeeekend” with a very depressed, drawn-out delivery. Usually while shaking your head)

Now, you must be thinking to yourself, “Come on. Cut the Duke some slack!!” Sure. But a few quick examples should set your mind in the right mood. We went on a ski trip with him—He had rented a HUGE condo ON the mountain! There was like 15 of us going, a real great group….and we get there, and they had no records of him renting the condo. Or anything. There was no place for us to stay. So we crammed in a 2-bedroom—all 15 of us.

Or in college…I had booked this great band to come from Massachusetts and play our Fraternity house in upstate NY. Planned a whole BBQ party around it—kegs, flyers, the whole 9 yards. Adam booked a ticket to come up and see it. And the band canceled the next day. And it rained the whole weekend he was there–so we had to cancel the party.

OK, so you get the idea. But I said “fuck it”, because the Duke is still the Motherhuffin Duke, and I booked my ass down to New Orleans. And after a slight delay on my layover, in which I ate a disgusting Chicken Caesar Wrap from a shitty airport kiosk—I’m there.

He greets me like a gentleman with an On-your-ass-strong Hurricane in the car (yes, they serve booze at Drive-Thrus down there. They just bend the straw so you “cant” drink it). And in an hour, we’re on Bourbon Street, freakin’ raging.

This place is packed, partly because of New Years and partly because of all the Bowl Games going on. So we eat at some shitty place—I have the catfish upon recommendation—and we get back to the boozing. We move on to “Hand Grenades”—supposedly a patented drink that involves like 5 liquors including grain alcohol—yet it tastes like sweet breastmilk (or candy, that might be a better description). They really are delicious. So I have two.

And we’re bar hopping. Beads around our neck. Seeing some random boobies. We go up to this bar, out on the balcony to look down on the debauchery. It’s really a chaotic place. And these women are walking around, with these $3-a-pop, test-tube like shots that you know probably have no alcohol and are mixed of god knows what. This not-even attractive girl is really trying to get me to take some—I tell her a stern “No”. And Adam tells her “Yes, he’ll take 2”. So she shoves them in my mouth and charges me $6.

And this is where things start to go wrong. My mouth starts to water a tad. “Wait,” thinks I, “Is this the unavoidable onset of vomit approaching? Or is it…the taste of Adam Weekend?” Turns out, it was both.

Within moments I was puking in a trash can in some parking garage God-knows-where. Now, I have to say…I’m a beer man, but usually I can hold my liquor a little bit better than this. So that was strange. And what I was to learn over the course of the next few days was that much more was at play here…

…I had gotten food poisoning. Now I know your thinking, “Mr. Pizza Sauce…Stop making excuses for being such a weak-stomached punnani.” Alas, I wish it were that simple. But I will tell you, my next four days down in the Big Easy were filled with intense stomach pain, the inability to eat or enjoy any type of alcohol, and diarrhea. Lots and lots of it.

I was either filling up on toast or peeing out my butt for a majority of my time down there. It was awful. I felt like a young teenage girl training for the Anorexia Olympics.

In fact, as I write this on my way back to LA, I still haven’t had a solid shit in 5 days. Now, you probably don’t want or need to know this, but I’m concerned for my health and think I’m actually going to have to see a doctor when I get back. And more importantly, I want you to fully understand what an Adam Weekend entails. Discomfort. And diarrhea.

But aside from the emotionally scarring physical ailment, I still had a blast down there. Or at least as good of a time as was possible. Fun times and hearty laughs were definitely had, despite the Adam Weekend. And I encourage you to read about the good times we had in “Only on Bourbon Street”—the second part of this Hershey-squirt filled chapter….