Picture this: Fifty or sixty Saints fans on a street corner in San Francisco, all waving white napkins and screaming, "WHO DAT! WHO DAT! WHO DAT SAID DEY GONNA BEAT DEM SAINTS! WHO DAT!"
It was a beautiful thing.
If you're in San Francisco and you want to watch a Saints game, the Black Magic Voodoo Lounge is the place to be. It's on Lombard and Franklin. Everybody in the room will be from Louisiana. New Orleans y'at accents everywhere. It is LITERALLY like being in New Orleans for four hours. Seriously. If you've never been to New Orleans and want to know what it's like, go there for a Saints game. It's the real deal. It's us being us. Yeah you right, baby!
Hell of a game yesterday. 48-27. The Saints killed it. They're undefeated. Un-fucking believable. Bless you boys.
The place was insane by half-time. Music blaring, Dr. John, Rebirth Brass Band. A cute boy in glasses grabbed me and started twirling me around the dance floor. Yes. On one foot. With a broken knee. Give me enough Maker's Mark and Abita Amber and anything is possible!
I met Regina, who I love. She's in a leg brace right now too! We're going to go dancing when we can walk again.
More hot Louisiana boys. Delicious. Fuck, I miss my southern Louisiana men. Men who are MEN. Not these pretty city boys. When I go out in SF, there are rarely guys worth hitting on. But at the Black Magic Voodoo Lounge during a Saints game? A room full of men I want to fuck. Look at these cutie pies, from Napa:Yum. I want them all. First separately, for a minimum of four hours each. Then, all four at once. All night. Yum again.
When our boys were finished thrashing the Giants, the place exploded. We screamed. People were dancing on the bar, standing in the windows. We second-lined down the street. Yes, even me. On crutches.
Yeah you right indeed. Geaux fucking Saints. WHO DAT!