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Weekend's spring break guide -- cars

I took a road trip for spring break last year, and I'm doing it again next week. When you're riding in a car with three other guys, unshaven and hung over, the car reeking of cold canned foods and the delightful aroma of stale body odor, underwear slightly worn out from its five-day unwashed gig, man, then you know you're living the good life. You can't even set foot out of the car for fear that the locals will run screaming for their daughters and their shotguns. Unless you're at a truck stop, where the filthy go to play. There you will be accepted into an exclusive club full of angry men with suspicious eyes. Remember to stop at Stuckey's while you're there and pick up a pecan log. It's all you'll have to eat for a while.

My friends and I enjoyed many of these delicious pecan-covered logs last year on our way to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. Six of us made that long trek in two cars -- Buffalo Wings, Too Tall, Rock Monkey, City-Boy, Mr. Clean, and your humble narrator, Bob Peters (all names have been slightly changed).

Our first stop, after everyone had been picked up from their respective cities, was Mammoth Caves, Kentucky. To our surprise, the Mammoth Caves campgrounds were closed, since it was about 10 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT. So we ended up at one of the world-famous Jellystone Park campgrounds and set up shop for the night. We finally got our fire started after two hours of intense work, at which point City-Boy lit himself on fire twice by attempting to make hamburgers. I woke up with icicles hanging from my nostril hairs, and I was sleeping in one of the cars. We had to take an ice pick to the two fools in the tents. For the rest of the trip, we didn't need to buy pre-chilled beer, we'd just hand our cans to Buffalo Wings and Too Tall for a few minutes.

After a tour of Mammoth Caves that afternoon, we were back on the road, this time headed toward Memphis, Tennessee. To anyone under 21 who is planning on hanging around Memphis for spring break, I offer a word of advice -- don't. Memphis plays it strictly by the rules, and the rules say that anyone under 21 does not require alcohol. It didn't really matter all that much, since we were carrying two large jugs of assorted liquor and several cases of ale with us in the cars, but we were still pretty upset. Much of the thrill of the college road trip comes from drinking alcohol in new and exotic locations. I guess no one told Memphis that.

And another thing ... Graceland was closed! Here we are, six scuzzy guys, miles from the safe streets of Ann Arbor, and they close Elvis' damn house on us! On the way out of town, Mr. Clean made sure to wave a friendly naked butt cheek at the Memphis sign, to let them know how much we appreciated that.

By this point in our journey, the cars were beginning to take on that comfortable odor that I discussed earlier. Or maybe we were beginning to take on that smell, and the cars were the ones retching and gagging. No matter, because our next stop was the warm Louisiana coast, where we drank with the locals, ate po-boys for every meal, swam in the ocean, and slept in the sand. The town we ended up in was called Grand Isle, right on the very tip of the country we call the United States. Apparently the Grand Isle townies weren't aware that they had been accepted into the Union and were required to obey American laws, because no one seemed to care that we were tossing back Millers in the local tavern. "Sucks to Memphis!" screamed Rock Monkey, as he chugged his final Dixie beer, a not-to-be-missed highlight of the great state of Louisiana.

From the bar, we drove back up to New Orleans, where we conned a Tulane University fraternity house into believing that we were their long-lost brothers from U-M. Satisfied that we had a place to stay for the night, we jumped on a streetcar, headed toward world infamous Bourbon Street.

One note for the wise -- streetcars are not the same as cars. Do not mistake the two. Cars are good, streetcars are bad. It took us about an hour to travel the two miles from the frat house to Bourbon Street. By the time we reached the action, we were almost sober. Do not let this happen to you.

I'm not going to get into the details of Mardi Gras, as you've probably seen that moron Pauly Shore extolling its virtues on MTV several times in the past. Suffice it to say I still haven't recovered.

One final bit of advice about the road trip that you should know -- avoid car accidents. Fifteen miles from Ann Arbor, after a straight drive from New Orleans, Buffalo Wings' car was treated to a nice walloping dent with Bob Peters at the wheel. Unfortunately, no one gave me this advice ahead of time.