The 5 Things Miles Learned in New OrleansPosted: March 28, 2012
Don’t Tear Things Down
Thinking of bulldozing that 100 year old church to put up a new parking garage? Think again bitch. Do you think I’m gonna visit your city if everything looks like a strip mall? Hell no. I expect to go clothes shopping in a Victorian mansion, pick up some groceries in a castle, and have dinner with my man in an 18th century children’s playhouse. Get that wrecking ball away from my food.
Mobilize Trannies to Direct Traffic
A fact of life you can always rely on: trannies do it better. He-she’s and shims make better mothers, landlords, and money launderers, and most of all better traffic directors. Not sure which way to go? Traffic Tranny will grab your penis and help you across the street. Questioning your sexuality in the middle of an intersection? Traffic Tranny will answer that question: you’re gay.
Put as Many Bars as Close Together as Possible
When I get my drinky on, I don’t want to be trekking over half the city to have a good time. I want 12 bars within spitting distance that are all hip in contrasting but complimentary ways. I want the music from one bar to merge with the music of another to create a new genre of music called I’m drunk. I want to witness a critical mass of cutoff short shorts and Forever 21 jewelry, all to the sweet smell of vomit and cigarettes.
Fancier Parks Please
The New Orleans criteria for parks seems to be that if you can’t take a wedding photo in it, it’s not a park. I mean, where do other cities get off calling a patch of grass with a tree or two a park? I don’t see a statue or a fountain in that park. And just where is the red brick sidewalk? There’s not even any latticed iron work around that playground. How crude.
Let People Drink Outside
What is the harm in letting people take their beers outside of the bar? If we want to be an upwardly mobile society then our drinks need to come with us. What if I need to “take it outside” with some bitch who called me a bitch, but I also want to finish my cosmo-tini? Don’t make me spill blood on this dance floor, Minneapolis.