Fattest Tuesday

Fat Tuesday is the culmination of the Mardi Gras or ‘carnival season’. Mardi translates to Tuesday in French and Gras means fat. Fairly simple, I guess. The name comes from the tradition of fattening up a calf with the intent of slaughtering it on the final day of the carnival. Good times. It’s also sometimes referred to as ‘Pancake Tuesday’, due to the fact that the older people who don’t party their asses off are evidently making pancakes in an attempt to use up all of the fatty, forbidden crap that will be given up the next day. I assume they’re talking about using up fats, eggs and dairy products. Nobody gives up Bisquick for Lent, right?

If I understand it correctly, it’s essentially the day of the Jackass. You’re encouraged to indulge in all of those crazy things you intend to give up to kick off the Lenten season. People eat all types of unhealthy, artery-clogging foods and throw margaritas at their faces in record speed. Makes perfect sense on some planet, I’m sure. We’re like squirrels saving up for a 40 day self-imposed hibernation. I’m personally not into giving up things to cause myself any level of irritability. Selfish? Possibly. All I know is that I work my ass off, and if I want to eat a shit-ton of chocolate… game on! You may have guessed that I’m not all that religious. Sure, I was raised Catholic, but even as a kid I thought it was ridiculous to give up Hostess cupcakes for 40 days. What exactly does this prove? Hardly the same when you consider the parallel… now, is it? I’m a firm believer that Jesus would really want me to keep going about business as usual. Haven’t we all made enough sacrifices?

I’m not exactly sure how the boob flashing was introduced into the occasion. Perhaps these young ladies have vowed to give up their whorish ways until Easter. I’m not sure I want to get inside their heads on this one. I’ve experienced a number of Fat Tuesday celebrations here in Cleveland, and I can promise you that it’s NEVER the attractive girls flashing their goodies in exchange for a 10 cent string of beads. The same chick who’s vowing to give up McDonald’s Quarter Pounders is the one hoisting her shirt over her head. The fear of inadvertently glimpsing giant, mis-shapen nipples hovering over a poorly healed C-Section scar is enough to keep me planted on my couch. Maybe they were on to something with that tradition of slaughtering cows at midnight.


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About the Broad

A humorous look at dating in your mid-thirties and the other hilarious things that happen around us on a daily basis.

March 2011
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