THE SUBCOMMANDANTE REPORTS FROM THE QUARTER

Wassup bitchez! It's been a bitches' age since I've been around, but watching the Columbian Republic of Uzubuckistan kick ass like some kind of beast that craves only the sweet dick-hardening taste of asskick makes a man busier than Jim Tressel in a pussy shop, dude. (And Jimmy T would totally wreck a pussy shop, even though I don't even know what that is. He wears a sweatervest to insulate the world from his mansomeness.)

Anyway, so I'm totally broke and crashed out at Mom's place for the game....NOT! Suck it world, because four months of hard white-collar work at Kinko's got Wayne enough scratch to fuel up the Grand Am, put a new "FEAR THE NUT" sticker on the back, and hit the highway like a bandito for Old New Orleans. My boy Ted's got a room there at at the Canal Hotel, which is awesome because it's right by the interstate, which is totally where you want to be except for the homeless people in a tent city beneath the overpass and that black dude who twitches a lot and stands on the corner. Once you turn on the television, you can't hear the sirens or the trucks on the interstate at all.

(Who knows how Mom's getting to work. Maybe that fat bitch Liz can take her so they can smoke and bitch about mom's lousy boyfriend Al. He works at a gun shop, which should be cool, right? But the fucker won't let me even shoot one off behind the store, and he's also into figurines, which we all know means he's a complete pole-smoker trying to get in on mom's sweet pension. And if there's one hombre who's getting in on that shit, it's me, man, and not Mr. Figurine Assassin or whatever.)

So after driving across some states (Tennessee? Who the fuck knew you had to drive through Tennessee to get down here? Seriously: WHAT. THE. FUCK.) that don't matter and whose football teams all blow goats Wayne pulled up at Ted's, who said I could sleep on the floor for thirty bucks a night. Normally Wayne would say piss off and just stay in the old Grand Am Inn, but there's tons of fucking homeless people, and they didn't seem like the really innocent prophet-type homeless guys black actors are always playin' in movies man. These guys looked like they'd stab me for my Boeckman jersey, which I kind of understand. It's an awesome jersey.

And being flush with my Kinko's loot, I just gave him ninety bucks right there. It was so baller I almost passed out on the farts of my coolness. Ted was stunned, but that's the new Wayne. I'm like a white Mannie Fresh.

Sorry for the local lingo. Being in the Nolia just makes you funkier. I'm so over Nickelback--it's like I was a different person back then, man: angry, hatin' and blamin' everyone else for everything. No more, man. Straight dirty hip-hop from now on for old Wayne. I'm so dirty but yet still shiny--that's the new Wayne, wodi. Mom will fucking flip when she sees the gold tooth, but whatever--they're like fifty bucks on Canal Street and I look so tight with it she can't deny when she sees it. Her boy bout to go real big.

So here's what Wayne's learned in his time in New Orleans:

1. Ohio State fans are so totally awesome. Seriously a girl gave me the show of a life last night. She dropped her top and unveiled two, like, old fifties-style torpedo boobs. I mean, there were four to five hundred people in the street, but that shit was just for me. I was shinin' too hard not to get some free titties. And those are the only kind the Subcommandante's getting, because I don't pay for no sex.

2. If some dude comes up and bets you ten dollars that he bets you know where you got your shoes, man, DON'T DO IT. Because he's gonna say, "On Bourbon Street," and you're gonna be like "yeah, that's like a whole totally different meaning of the word 'on'," and then it all ends with you and and smartass homeless dude pissing your pants when the cops come over on their war-horses with their billy clubs. I mean, he pissed his pants. Not me.

3. Ohio State is totally going to own this game. It's not even close. The signs are everywhere. Ohio State fans are everywhere. You know what kinds of beans they serve here? Not purple beans, but red beans. I don't even know if purple beans exist, but I bet if you did they'd be some kind of gay beans that sprouted total and absolute busted gayness in a Mardi Gras hat. If I wanted to wear beads and feather boas, I'd just go chow down at the Gloryhole Diner on a manwurst sandwich, no bun.


Like you can crack a Buckeye, bitches. Re-kuh-nize!

4. I own this town. It's like I'm the Pope of Crack. I walk down the street and people always want me to eat in their restaurants, their clubs. They'll even like grab me and say, "Hey, man, this is the joint here," or "We have breakfast specials." Now Wayne likes his eggs and bacon as much as the next straight, America-loving dude, but my sudden popularity means I have to be careful. Plus you can eat and Krystal and use their wireless as long as you want, which allowed me to join in at 2 a.m. last night in my clan's latest crusade in WoW. I pwned, but you knew that.

5. Ol' Wayne's looking like he's in need of a place to stay, because Ted says he's got chicks coming in and needs me to move. Which is some busted-up shit, but whatever. I'm like Little Wayne. When my check from FEMA comes, I buy some co-ka-ee-na and make things happen. If you have somewhere for me--seriously, twitchy guy is scaring the shit out of me every time I leave the hotel--hit me up and ballingassmage@aol.com. Your boy will give you at least thirty bucks to let him sleep on your couch.

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