But let me not get ahead of myself.  Why was I heading to Mardi Gras, when I had made plans for an Idiot Odyssey in Punxatawny PA for Ground Hog's Day?  Well the sentence itself was enough to explain, but it came down to the fact that the good ol' boys from Memphis contacted us to attend.  Super Boy and I were going to head down with the Memphis boys.  It wasn't only a rugby tournament in New Orleans during mardi gras, but also it was Super Bowl Sunday in New Orleans.  Super Boy, from Massachusetts, wanted to be there for the New England Patriots 3rd Super Bowl ever.  I just wanted to go and party.

I found a flight for $350, which I could use my $400 flight voucher to attend.  The guys from Memphis assured me it would be cheap (they had lodgings arranged and beer would be taken care of).  I was ready to roll.  Then Super Boy told me that he wasn't really planning on doing the rugby thing (he was driving down and wouldn't get there until Saturday afternoon.)  While I have gone on several odysseys by myself, I thought about who I could ask to join me.  And it occurred to me, good friend and team groupie, McG.  McG was a chick that I had worked with who became as much a part of the club as any of the players.  She was like the 12-year old Tomboy that you hung out with when you were younger, but couldn't figure out why she grew a chest and suddenly got "pretty" or something.  Well with the rare exception on our club, no one had tapped this resource.  She was one of the guys for the most part, but would always put on a good "tease" at all times for the boys.  As long as we all knew what she was doing, no one would get hurt.  There were the few cases of mistaken interest by new players, but in the end, it was clear, McG was just that "one of the guys."  So I invited her.  Now let me get one thing straight.  I did not break rule 17 (Don't bring sand to the beach).  I wasn't bringing sand to the beach, I was bringing sand for the beach.  I was bringing her to barder, to trade to the Memphis club, for beer or lodgings.  My rugby prowess could only get me so many beers in payment.  In no way would a trade constitute sexual relations mind you.  

So McG was in.  She was hyped.  Super Boy however would not make the journey.  Turns out he was "released" from his job that night and didn't think it was wise to go off to New Orleans, without a job prospect. {Editor note:  Why the hell not, not like he had a job to come back to, but I digress} So we made plans.  I had to work at the bar on Thursday night.  I would get off work around 2:30 AM and would be off to McG's house to get her for the hour drive to Baltimore-Washington Airport for our 6 am flight to New Orleans.  We arrived at the airport just in time.  McG was good enough to pack some supplies for the trip.  She got snack food for snacking and got me 4 cans of Vienna Sausages (great tour food) and snuck a couple cans of "potted meat" into the bag as well.  Now I must go off on a short tangent here.  Potted meat may be the most disgusting thing I have ever eaten.  Tripe, mechanically separated chicken, and misc meat products.  The stuff not good enough to put in a hot dog.  She also got a 12 pack of beer to smuggle on the flight.

Once on our flight I fell asleep.  2 hours of sleep would be all that I would need/get during the first 48 hours.  But it was enough.  We landed in New Orleans after a short layover in Houston.  During the flight to the Big Easy from Texas, we drank some cocktails, and I kept telling everyone that it was our honeymoon.  She kept screaming it wasn't to which I would break down and cry.  Everyone on the plane hated her so much for her attempts to distance herself from her new husband.  It was quite funny spectacle.  She whispered her revenge, to sabotage any chance I would have with another girl.  I didn't fear her because, plain truth, I wasn't gonna be hooking up with anyone, it was New Orleans and I had bigger fish to fry...getting drunk, seeing the fabulous breast made famous on the Girls Gone Wild videos, and playing a game of rugby (come on really...I was hardly in shape to play more than 1 game).

So we arrive in New Orleans and are walking through the airport and I remembered a time 10 years earlier, my first trip to the Mississippi delta.  I went there with my college sweet heart (who I ended up marrying.  In total 10 years, til she decided she had enough of the East, my lifestyle, and simply put, me.  I can't blame her though, I am not a easy person to live with and as I have found recently, am quite selfish.  But I digress again.)  It was a great trip.  We had a blast.  But it wasn't a drunken debauchery trip.  It was the kinda trip that men only talk about when they are drunk and feeling sorta sentimental.  The kinda stuff that they would kill themselves if their mates found out.  Tours, dinners, dancing, sipping chardonnay from a river boat.  The stuff that rugby is not about.  Truth be told it was lots of fun, but it was time to see the Sleazy Big Easy.

So we leave the secured zone of the airport and see several limo drivers with signs for their parties.  I start yelling out, "who has the one for "fat rugby player?"  No response, so I continue to the baggage and we get into a cab and he takes us on our $40 cab ride to the pitch.  That was the first big expenditure.  I travelled with $100.  A fifth of my money was already gone.  We walked up to the pitch, which looked like a squatters colony with tents scattered across the park.  Games were already being played, and I hoped my club was already in the motions (eliminating at least one game from my schedule.)  Not to happen.

The first guy to approach was our referee from the week before in Memphis.  He chatted to me and McG for a bit.  He seemed to become quite fond of McG and I realized, I had a gold mine with her by my side.  My mind started to drift off.....

(Scene:  Some sleazy bar in New Orleans.  A rugby player walks up and says, "I will buy you beer all weekend if you let me sleep with your friend."  Next thought was of me splashing around in a big vat of beer, while McG walks off with some rugger. )

Oh, this was brilliant.

Then the Memphis Blues rolled up.  I have made up nicknames for some of them, because I have either forgotten their name, or because I am trying to protect them from their stories.  Some of the names were used on tour, others are modified here.  The team captain, Chris, was the first to approach, along with his 3 henchmen from the week before.  His biggest boys were his locks and 8 man joined by their prop.  All very big boys.  Since some of the guys really didn't do anything wrong, in my eyes, I will use their nicknames.  Hope they don't mind.  DG, a real ladies man, was their 8.  Big Country, who was fairly new to the game actually played with PAC the week before (we traveled light).  Mule was a short prop who was a Orthopedic Surgeon from NYC who was doing some studies in Memphis on back surgery.  He had discussed proptalk while we were there.  Next was Flash Dance, a big lock, who was suffering from a cold and would limit is alcohol intake (pussy).  Later a few more would arrive.  They were looking rather short.  Eight Blues and one PAC guy.  We didn't have a hooker, a flanker or some backs.  The Blues flanker agreed to play scrum half and things went down hill from there.  He, as you will see later, would be called "McG's Bitch."  By me anyways.

They all teased me about bringing McG, but at the same time were happy to see they had a female fan base.  Several of them made comments about her being with me, which I quickly denied.  I told them several times that she was trading material.  They laughed and we got ready for our first match.  One of their players (the rookie they beat with the spoon in Memphis) had been thrown in jail 10 minutes after arriving in New Orleans.   His team didn't seem to mind and decided to leave him there.  His actions on the drive had led to a lot of animocity.  Everytime someone would call his cell phone the boys would answer it and tell them, "no, he is in jail."  We later found out he would be deliced in jail and have to stay for 18 hours before being released.  Turned out to be a great trip for him.

The match was against their rivals, New Orleans Rugby club.  The hosts.  From the brackets I could see this was a pretty weak tourney.  Eight men's teams. If that.  We played the match and were beaten quite handily.  Our huge pack pretty much dominated them the entire match.  The young locks were strong and pushed well.  Mule and I carried the front row like the veterans we are.  We picked up a young hooker named Aztec, who was whoring with several of his mates from his Wisconsin club.  He was a quality hooker.  We didn't lose any line outs and managed to steal several of theirs.  At one point, they were throwing in, and there was some confusion on their call.  They were throwing to the 2nd jumper, but the hooker tossed it to the vacated first jumper.  DG, our first jumper and 8 man, easily caught the ball and mauled for several metres before losing the ball to their much stronger backs.  

During the next line out, I asked their hooker "Can you do that play again, where you throw the ball directly to us."  The much more serious NORFC took offense, but the hooker, in good fashion laughed with us.  We played on for a while, with only a few minor incidents.  One of their backs punched McG's Bitch in the face.  His response was to blow the guy a kiss.  I about fell on my ass when he was sin binned along with the other player for such a violent response.  This was ridiculous.  

On a later play, their lock took the ball to ground, I got in before he could turn and pulled the ball partially out. He wouldn't let go, and while we were rolling over, he punched me in the face and said, "come on old man, you know better than that."  Old man?  I quickly yelled back, "I am not old, I am just fat."  That is my favorite comeback for everything.
Well the game ended 65-0 and we walked off to the side of the pitch.  One thing I noticed about my team, they were a bunch of really nice guys.  Great at the pub, not good on the pitch.  We had another game in 2 hours, so I kept my boots on and walked over and downed a couple more beers.  McG quickly pointed out to the team, if we want to win, we might try to run the ball in the "endzone."  Great coaching.

As anyone that has played with me knows, I am not a great rugby player.  I wouldn't even say a good rugby player.  I would say I do well in the scrums (hard to move 330 pounds) and a great lifter in line outs, but loose play, well, 330 pounds is a lot of meat to lug around and I have never been fit, well since my days in college football anyways.  But I realized, I wouldn't be sent to the minors this day.  They needed me....oh yeah, they needed me.
 
So there we are, drinking some beers, eating Vienna Sausages, chatting rugby up, and I see a group of kilted players.  Turns out a touring side from the UK and New Zealand had entered the tourney.  They had a live lobster on a leash.  It was obviously not doing well in the 45 degree temperature, not to mention the fact it was out of water.  But these anti PETA folks didn't seem to mind.  By that evening it was dead.  More about that later.  

Our next match was versus a club from Canada.  I had met them earlier in the day (before we had picked up 6 guys) and told them that the Blues had only 9 guys at the pitch.  So when they showed up with 10 guys (hoping to allow some of their boys a rest from the night before and allowing us to play a nice game of 10s) they were shocked to see we had 15 on the pitch.  They quickly picked up 5 more guys and the game was on.
Again, we dominated the scrums non-stop.  The prop I was opposing was a college prop and he kept grabbing my knee in the scrums.  The first time I hit his elbow.  A warning shot.  The second time I gave him the famed "prop's armpit pinch" and warned him again.  The final scrum he did it, I brought my fist up under his chin, and stopped just shy of punching him.  I could tell he was young and just didn't know his way around the pitch.  I stopped him after the scrum and said, "if you grab my knee one more time, we are gonna have a serious disagreement."  He took my warning to heart and kept his hand off my knee the rest of the match.  I spoke with him after and it was true, it was his first season.  While a blow to the face would have been a good lesson, I really didn't want to start off my Mardi Gras by punching someone in the face.  I can already hear half my Idiot Brothers out there asking, "WHY THE HELL NOT?"

The game, well we lost 14-7.  Nuff about that.

We sat back and drank beers, chatting with a couple of cute trashy cajun chicks that were sitting with McG.  The plan was simple.  Shower up, head over to the "Rugby Pub" (NORFC) for some food and drink (the cheap bastards didn't even put on a keg) and head into the French Quarter.

We arrived and most of the food was gone.  Beer was fairly cheap however and we drank beer for a few hours.  The rookie, Opie, walked over and bought me a beer.  McG's Bitch bought me a shot as did McG and I had a good buzz going.  I soon abandon the club to go chat with the touring side.  I stood around this club, as they were decked out in costumes, hats, and great t shirts.  I felt silly sitting their in my Sports Kilt, next to the nice tartans the Scots were wearing, but they didn't seem to mind.  They started chatting with me, one in particular and it turns out, his old college mate is a member of my club (PAC Rugby). "Do you know Gram?"  I replied, "yeah, good guy."  Bucky, the Jocks name, replied, "well you must be drunk if you think Gram is a nice guy, is a f'en asshole."  We laughed for a while and then had some beers.  

The night was getting late and I got back to my boys.  They had taken over a table and had the boys situated around it.  The club had made up their own mardi gras beads with the Memphis Blues crest on a plastic medallion hanging on the front.  They gave a couple to McG and I and were were suddenly part of the gang.  They also had this ceramic frog statue, about a foot tall.  It was standing on its hind legs holding a crown above it's head.  It was quite a sight.  

One of the college teams then started their rugby songs.  After a long and drawn out "seven days of rugby" in which the song master screwed up the song 3 times (no anal boots this time) the song was over.  I whispered to Big Country to follow my lead.  The boys had found the PAC "Haka" quite impressive in Memphis and had actually had me lead it prior to our match vs the Canadians. 

I stood on a chair and started.  "A little la papa lil lay"  The bar hushed and followed in suit.  By the time I had zenithed on the final verse, I was spitting  beer out my mouth, screaming  the words.  The touring side, sat, disinterested for the most part, but the rest of the bar was into it.  My voice was now gone.  I always wonder how I lose my voice so quickly on tour.  This explained it.

So, we were off to New Orleans.  Iceman, as he soon was called, was the player that had to do the anal boot from the big ass in Memphis.  I brought the photos from our tour the previous week and they laughed at the night's affair.  Iceman was his new callsign because he just bought a pair of $5 aviator sunglasses and was wearing them very pimp like.  He was ready to roll.

We jumped into 2 cars.  Very tight squeeze.  Flash was driving opie's Trans Am, which had McG, opie and McGs bitch in the back.  Very tight squeeze.  We lost the SUV with the rest of the mates on board.  We agreed to meet at Pat O'Briens and we drove to the city.  We found a parking spot, about 2 miles from Bourbon street and started walking.  Flash's cold had gotten worse and he had planned on ditching us early.  I told him to take the car if he left and he agreed.  I figured if he left it, one of us idiots would try to drive it drunk.  While a cab would be an expensive venture, I think it was a better idea.

After a nice stop in the gay neighborhood, a restaurant, where we paid $1.75 to piss, and at a voodoo store, we found our mates in front of Pat O'Briens.

We headed into the bar, which was packed, and we decided it wasn't the place for us to be.  We headed down the street and marvelled at the crowds.  There were thousands of New England Patriot fans for the Sunday grid iron game.  I suddenly felt my kilt lifted and some girl smiling at me.  Before I could say anything Big Country stepped in and said, "Give him some of your beads.  You lifted his kilt."  She agreed.  She asked to lift it again "to get a better look" and agreed to lift her shirt in trade.  I quickly pulled out the camera for her boob shot.  Great set on her.  McG soon got into the act and threw up her shirt for the crowd and we were pelted by beads.  It was like raining beads.  I threw some of hers around my neck and we continued on.  We then saw a Fox Sports tv crew interviewing people.  I walked up to the camera and turned my back to it, showing off my PAC RUGBY jacket.  Nice bit of advertising.  I should speak with the president of the club for some endorsement package.  Anyways, we continued on.  The news team followed and grabbed McG and started to interview her.  This was ridiculous.  She was having so much better of a time than I.  So we again moved on and found our way to another club.  McG paid her $5 cover and McG's Bitch paid for my cover.  During our time in the French Quarter I had paid for 1 beer all night and the other guys had paid for the rest.  I appreciated their generocity and pushed McG towards McG's Bitch harder at this point.  The other guys agreed it was the best thing for McG's Bitch to have a warm thing to cuddle with, even if he didn't get any action.  So they didn't taunt him.

While in line outside I saw 2 cans of beer in the window by the doorguy.  They had not been opened, most likely confiscated by the door guys.  I set that in my memory, got a beer and went to the stage where Ice Man was dancing with some other NSYNC look alikes and they were doing a strip dance for the chicks in the bar.  For the most part, actually all but this moment, men weren't allowed on stage.  The 2 DJs on the stage, the rest of the night, would sing along with the music and dance with hot chicks around them.  They were sorta faggy looking, but obviously were doing better than I was sitting amongst 400 guys staring at the hand ful of chicks on stage getting topless.  Iceman went to the bar with his mates and McG and McG's Bitch left me at the stage.  McG said for me "NOT to leave this spot...because [she] couldn't lose me."  I promised and watched the stage some more.  After a couple more beers, my old mortal enemy, piss, surfaced its ugly head and I needed to pee.  I then remembered I promised McG I wouldn't leave.  I walked on the stage and the crowd cheered.  I grabbed an empty 32 oz cup and put it under my kilt and filled it with piss.  I don't think anyone noticed however.  I set it down and started dancing with some chicks.  The Door guys then walked up on stage and told me to get down.

As I stood waiting for McG, I noticed another guy try to get on stage but this time the door guy was quicker....he jumped the guy, threw him out of the bar.  I asked myself why I had been spared from this exile.  MY old friend Mamoo, the mystical dingo the steals aborginal children in the middle of the night, was watching after me.

I decided it was time to find McG and walked away.  I noticed McG's Bitch outside waving at me.  I walked over to him and asked what happened.  It turned out he walked out the wrong door of the club looking for a bathroom and pissed in the alley.  The bouncers saw him and put a permanent black marker on his hand, banning him from the club.  I reentered to notify his mates and found them in the back.  I lectured McG about NOT coming back and told them of McG's Bitch's status.  They laughed.  DG had moved in on some hottie tall chick and after some idle cock blocking trying to steal her, I decided it was time to get back out to McG's Bitch.  His mates said they were gonna stay.  McG followed (she had become smitten with him) and we met at the door.  

He was sorta bummed and as a pick me up, McG suggested going to the strip bar across the street.  The sign read "live women sex acts."  We were in.  McG's Bitch paid for our cover again and bought us our first required round.  We sat front and center and sipped on $8 beers.  This after paying $10 cover.  After about 5 minutes McG's Bitch and I were begging for McG to let us leave.  The place was horrible.  Fat, hairy naked chicks.  We left and wandered the streets for a bit and decided to enter this bar that had a great Zydeco band playing.  We entered and the band viewed me in all my rugby abilities.  Spitoon in one hand, beer in the other, PAC jacket on and kilt.  I bought a round for the cute couple, who were more involved in heavy petting than talking to me, and I meandered down to the stage.  The band loved me.  They dedicated the next song to me, which while not really appropriate, was quite good.  "Don't mess with my tutu" an old country classic, was humorous and was done well.

I had a couple Hawaiian guys in the front row take my picture in front of the stage and then McG and her Bitch joined me.  The Hawaiian's asked were I was from and I lied and said Scotland.  They told me I was the funnest guy they had seen and that I must have some Hawaiian in me too.  I laughed.  McG and her bitch danced for a while and I found some hottie dancing alone.  I started dancing with her and we were having a great time.  My Hawaiian friends took a couple more photos of me.  McG would enact her revenge at this point.  She walked up and separated the girl and I and started dirty dancing with me.  She was cock blocking me.  She thought she was doing me some harm, but I had already noticed the giant rock on her ring finger and knew her man was probably in the bar somewhere, so I didn't really have a chance with her anyways.  After some cheap gropes she figured out I didn't care too much about my dance partner and we all left the bar.
McG was a drunk mess at this point and quite tired.  She demanded we go home.  I told her to lend me $30 for a cab and some beers and I would stay.  She refused, but her Bitch quickly handed me $30 and they were out.  

I walked back to the club to find the boys and they were still there.  They let me carry the giant frog for a while and I tied some beads around it's head and we partied on.  I found the stage again and went back up again with the frog.  I was ushered off again, but this time the DJs noticed me.  I wasn't kicked out AGAIN and started realizing I was immortal here.  The team joined me and told me they were leaving.  I told them to wait for one more song.  GNR Sweet Child o Mine had just started and it was time to get topless in Mardi Gras.  I handed my camera to a girl next to me and took my shirt off and screamed the words.  For about the past 5 songs the DJs had handed me the microphone and let me sing the words to all the songs they played.  After singing one of the GNR verses, I shed the shirt, and they just about fell over laughing.  I received several high fives before my friend, the bouncer, told me to put my shirt back on.  I told him I was leaving anyways and walked outside screaming the words.  

So there I am, Bourbon Street, wearing a kilt, no shirt, screaming Sweet Child o Mine.  Temperature was about 38 degrees (just above freezing) and the crowd started to circle me.  Everyone was singing GNR at this point.  One of the cops asked "you aren't from around here are you?" and laughed.  I called up my DC boys and told them of the experience.  They laughed and then I realized, my ride (the Blues) were no where to be found.  I headed back into the bar, with my shirt and this time asked my friend the bouncer, if I could have the 2 confiscated beers that I had seen in the window.  He agreed and I pounded them looking for the guys.  They were gone.  SHIT.  $20 should be enough to get back to the pitch.

I made my way through the crowd, bought a hot dog along the way, and found Canal Street (where the cops told me to look for a cab.)  I crossed the street and saw a young college rugger with his jersey.  I asked him if he was heading back to the pitch and he said no.  I asked if I could crash at his pad, but the overwhelming thought of allowing this 330 pound prop, wearing a kilt, into his parent's house, scared him to death and he ran away screaming like the kid on Home Alone.  I stood on the street corner for about 15 minutes being denied cab after cab until finally I heard, "hey Montana."  Up pulls a Black SUV with 7 Blues in it.  Iceman crawled out and I got in.  He positioned himself across the laps of the backseat and we drove back.  WE arrived at the Rugby Pub and quickly headed over to the convenience store.  The lady was outside at this point and screamed to us that the inside was closed, but she could serve us from the window.  We all stopped, except Ice Man.  He walked inside.  The lady freaked out, started screaming about calling the cops.  I quickly covered by telling her that he was deaf...and faked some sign language and he joined us outside.  We got food, which Ice Man paid for, and headed to our lodgings. We were in a banquet room above the bar.  

I mixed a couple of Vodka martinis for Ice man and I,  in some candle holders (we had no glasses) and fell asleep.  The next morning we all woke to a freezing room (no one had turned the heat on) and I then noticed the room was actually the meeting hall for the Fraternal Order of Police.  The police save the day again.

Getting roused up for 2 more games was going to be tough.  While I had somehow survived the first 2 games with little more than sore joints, I figured I would be quite winded this time.  The weather was much nicer this day, with less wind, more sun, and a bit warmer (only in the low 50s).  We got beers and headed back to the pitch.  At the pitch, I secured a locker room for McG, where she showered, while I kept the door locked.  She finished and we prepared for our 3rd match.

Prior to our warm up, I noticed that the PA system was playing music from a stereo.  I mentioned what we needed was some motivation.  I told them I regretted not bringing my Rocky IV sound track.  They answered with, "we have it."  We sent Opie to the car to get the music and in now time we were jamming out to "Eye of the Tiger" and "In the Burning Heart."  The crowd all cheered as the Rocky Theme song came on and we warmed up for our match.

This time we were playing Indianapolis.  Before the kickoff, we all joked about this and that, but that is about as far as the fun went.  They pretty much destroyed us as well.  Our solid pack push was gone.  It may have something to do with the night's drinking, our sore bodies, or the freezing conditions we stayed in, but I gotta call a spade a spade.  As far as my man was concerned, I was schooled.  The prop gave me one hell of a push.  Even when I readjusted my weight to hold his head down, he still was able to get under me and lift with his head.  I knew the day would be long.

After twisting about every joint I had to stop the push, halftime arrived.  They replaced the prop with a prop that I could handle and we evened out the scrums.  We lost another close match, 56-0, and finished with a win over the touring side to finish the day.

We sat around telling stories, harassing the white trash cajun girls, and making fun of Opie for his continued attempts to get phone numbers from these girls (that lived 6 hours away from him.)  Opie had the right idea, but none of us, besides McG and her bitch were looking for love at that time.  

The boys again treated me fabulous with beer offerings and we were off to the Rugby Pub again for a pre-adventure.  This time we loaded up on food.  I had brought the Britney Spears and Christina Aguillera barbie dolls on tour again (my club's mascots) and had them in sexual positions all night.  We drank several beers and ate loads of Jambalaya and watched the awards banquet. NORFC gave out some amazing trophies and awards (which I completely object to!  Spend the money on beer for crying out loud.)  The clubs then started to break up for Mardi Gras again.

I had started to come down with a chill, and further I was completely broke.  I didn't feel comfortable continuing my abuse of their wallets and told McG that I had planned on getting a few beers and retiring to our lodgings.  Mule, the other prop, agreed to join me, as did Flash, McG and her bitch.  We ended up going out in the Big Easy suburbs for dinner.  We followed directions to a highly recommended "CAJUN" joint and were  dumbfounded to see it was "Copelands."  Copelands is a chain cajun restaurant.  We even have one in Washington, DC.  We laughed it off, entered and sat at the bar, waiting for a table to open.  

Our bartender was ridiculous.  Her name was Margeau and she was quite hot.  Sitting next to me were 3 pretty hot girls.  They looked young, but they were bellied up to the bar, so I chatted with them.  I asked if they wanted a drink and they informed me that they were only 17.  I then spent the next 10 minutes talking to them about my Britney and Christina dolls and was soon was motioned over to a table where my mates were sitting.  We ordered a few beers, some food (which was "okay") and had some interesting chats about politics, race relations, and religion.  When the check came, Mule picked up both McG and my tabs and we were honored.  

We got back to the lodge and retired upstairs with a couple of beers.  McG and her bitch nuzzled in the corner, Mule and I chatted a bit before he crashed, and Flash moaned in pain from his bout with a mix of food poisoning and his cold.  

We had asked Opie if he would take us to the airport bright and early (our flight was at 8 am) and he agreed.  We set my phone's alarm clock (hoping that the limited battery would last the night) and we went to bed.  I did not want to sleep on the hard cold floor, so I had taken every padded chair in the room and created a huge bed.  I lay on the chairs and quickly realized it wasn't as comfortable as it looked and dozed off to the sounds of McG and her bitch giggling in the night.

I woke up at what must have been 5 AM.  The boys had arrived from New Orleans.  They told great stories of this and that.  They laughed at my bed, and we got ready to roll.  Opie, with 1 hour of sleep, drove us to the airport, earning a certain degree of respect from this prop. He may be a wing, but I will always have a fond spot in my heart.  After saying our farewells to everyone, except DG - he was previously occupied with a guest he brought back, we were off.  

I need to address the DG incident.  It takes some mad skills to convince a girl, to come 15 miles outside of New Orleans, with 8 rugby guys, and sleep in the Fraternal Order of Police.  My hat is off to DG.

As for the rest of the boys, with the exception of Big Country's horrible smelling farts, the boys treated us fantastic.  I owe each and everyone of them a debt of gratitude and promise each that if they come to DC, I will host them in similar fashion.  Cheers to Memphis.

Our trip through the airport, was for the most part, uneventful.  Other than the security check.  We whipped through the check in line and headed through security.  I had packed most of my stuff in my kit bag, but still had some random parcels in my carry on.  As the security stopped me at the x-ray, I sat dumbfounded, hoping that the Memphis boys hadn't planted a knife or grenade or something in my bag.  I was called over to an examination table and was told to remove my shoes.  This was a gross feat in itself (no put intended).  I hadn't showered since the day before and was pretty ripe after playing rugby all day and drinking into the night.  Two National Guard gentlemen approached and stood behind the security agent.  He then removed item after item from my bag.  Two cans of potted meat, my business card holder, a couple granola bars, some mardi gras beads, Britney Spears barbie doll.......the security agent stopped.  "Why do you have a barbie doll in your bag," he asked.   I replied, "It's my daughters."  He followed with,"why are her panties around her knees?"  At this point, the two heavily armed soldiers started laughing.  I answered, "okay, it is a rugby thing....."  He nodded, put everything back in the bag and sent me on my way.

McG laughed her ass off as I approached, and we grabbed some breakfast, downed a beer, lost a couple dollars on the slot machines and caught our flight.  We returned to DC with wild stories to tell and several new close friends. McG even had a new pen pal.  In the end......fabulous Odyssey and perfect example of the brotherhood of rugby.