LESSER-KNOWN MARDI GRAS KREWES
It's Mardi Gras time in New Orleans! It all begins on 12th Night, the night when ageing Bourbon Street vulgarian Chris Owens slithers down the chimneys of the houses of the French Quarter and hides a length of gumbo-flavoured Mardi Gras beads inside a jazz-themed King Cake while whistling the theme tune to Treme. It culminates in the parades we know and get thoroughly inconvenienced by today, all of which are run by mysterious 'Krewes', which is a mystical secret codeword - virtually impenetrable to the outsider - that means 'Crews'. Here, then, are some of this year's lesser known K/Crew(e)s.
’tit ’tit Rex
A mysterious, borderline-insane Krewe who astonishingly feel that even the miniature float renditions of 'tit Rex are still overly bulky and ungainly. With this in mind, the Krewe set about making 1:72 versions of the already-shoebox-sized ‘tit Rex floats, claiming that the microscopic size “embodies a visual purity sadly lacking in all other Krewes”.
Route: Occurs on a cellular level.
Throws: Purple, green and gold microns.
Krewe de Drew
A mysterious black and gold-strewn Krewe that celebrates the numerous commercial endorsements of the talismanic yet mercurial $100million quarterback, the filming of commercials for which in no way impinge on his consistency or athletic performance. Sub-Krewes include Wrangler, Nike, Verizon Communications, Procter & Gamble, Vicks, Tide, Pepsi, Advocare, Monster Headphones and Chase.
Route: Erratically around the Superdome.
Throws: Depressingly needless interceptions.
A mysterious, all-canine Krewe whose ‘march’ is just the annual rounding up and exiling of the French Quarter’s stray dog population by city authorities.
Route: Some lame dog pun. I dunno. Down a thourwoofare, or something.
Throws: Probably slightly too fancy a name for the anaemic faecal matter that the participants continually shed.
KKKrewe of ‘Necks
A mysterious, all-white garbage-person Krewe who use Mardi Gras to march in full Klan gear, but who go shockingly unnoticed and are well-loved by all since their garb is barely distinguishable from the ‘traditional’ uniforms of almost all other Krewes.
Route: All white neighbourhoods only. So, the Marigny, then.
Throws: Mein Kampf coozies.
A mysterious, obnoxiously-located Krewe that parks itself on the Neutral Ground for ten days, intimidating all who come near and oblivious to even the slightest whiff of Mardi Gras spirit and the general basic standards of humanity. They are distinguished by their having every modern convenience hooked up to generators and their heinous spawn, who sit atop towering ladders, crowing above the common hordes like actual child royalty.
Route: HEY YOU GO AROUND US, WE WERE HERE FIRST. WE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN HERE.
Throws: WE WILL CUT YOU AS SOON AS LOOK AT YOU FOR PLASTIC BEADS.
Krewe de Woo!
A mysterious, thunderingly wasted Krewe made up of shallow, dead-eyed college kids alternating between drunken braying, looking at their phones and stopping occasionally to take selfies and whisper cruel insults about poor people. Despite outward signs of enjoyment – the constant whooping being the most obviously soul-rending – the experience means literally nothing to them and creates no positive memories, much like a psychopath at a children’s birthday party. Or like everyone at a Colour Run.
Route: March leaves from outside H&M, after which all involved rapidly stop caring.
Throws: Empty cans of Bud Light.
Krewe of BKLYN
A mysterious, panoramically-clueless Krewe, made up of transplants from Brooklyn who arrived in the city as recently as that morning. Despite having no official uniform, krewe members are virtually interchangeable as they shuffle between artisanal food outlets chanting, “Man, I just really love this architecture. It’s like being on a movie set”, “These cracked up roads are just so authentic” and “It’s costing my parents way less money in rent since I moved”.
Route: A sauntering zig-zag between newly-opened cronut delis and organic vaginal steaming rooms.
Throws: Carpets. Bags.
A mysterious, eye-wateringly malodorous Krewe consisting of a diverse collection of permanently hopped-up transients, from dentally-erratic banjo players to needlessly-aggressive ukulele players.
Route: From outside Checkpoint Charlies, across to the Neutral Ground, just outside Checkpoint Charlies.
Throws: Wait, no. YOU give US stuff, OK? YOU’VE GOT CHANGE DON’T GIVE ME THAT.
Krewe of Blake’s Seven
A mysterious, uber-awkward Krewe who feel that Chewbacchus is made up of prancing, sell-out perma-children who think that renting a Star Trek uniform for a day somehow gives you the right to call yourself a nerd even though you’ve never seen a black and white episode of Dr Who and instead just vape your way through endless games of Magic: The Gathering while obsessing about that sodding safety guard on the new Star Wars lightsaber as if you had anything even approaching involvement in the creative process of the film itself. The Krewe limits itself to floats depicting scenes from obscure 70s British sci-fi series, Blake’s Seven and also casually burns effigies of Harry Potter.
Route: Uptown simulation of the interstellar route between Earth and Cygnus Alpha. Along Magazine Street, essentially.
Throws: William Hartnell go-cups. Wikipedia him, you hateful dilettante.
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