I’ve taken much abuse over the years for being a Saints fan.
Unless they embarasss themselves Sunday, my curse is lifted.
Who Dat
Hey, we’re going! Doesn’t matter now.
One day Boudreaux and Thibodaux are out fishing on their pirogue, drunk as the US Congress. Boudreaux hooks his line on a gator, and as it thrashes they both fall in the bayou and are devoured by the gator.
Because they have lived less than exemplary lives, they find themselves down in hell in front of ol’ Splitfoot himself.
“Welcome to hell, boys,” the Devil says. “Hot enough for ya?” Thibodaux loosens his collar a bit, but says, “With all respect, Mr. Prince of Darkness, we’re from south Louisiana. Feels a little like springtime in the River Parishes down here to me.”
“I kinda like it, me,” Boudreaux agrees. So the Devil goes over to hell’s thermostat and turns up the heat. Boudreaux and Thibodaux respond by sitting down by a lava pool and allowing the heat to wash over their bodies.
“Not too bad,” Boudreaux says. “Like summertime in Lafayette.”
The Devil turns up the fires of hell just a bit more.
Thibodaux responds by taking off his shirt and asking of there’s any hot sauce up in here.
Not to be so easily thwarted, the Devil has an idea.
Instead of turning the thermostat up, he turns it down. The fires of hell subside a bit; Boudreaux and Thibodaux start to shiver. Realizing he’s on to something, the Devil cranks the AC higher. A layer of frost forms atop the fiery pit and the first few snowflakes begin to drift down.
Boudreaux can’t stand it — he’s got icicles forming on his nose and the water in his shrimp boots freezes to his feet. But Thibodaux starts dancing around, whooping and hollering.
“What’s wrong with you?” Boudreaux asks his friend.
“Aren’t you freezing?” “I guess I am,” Thibodaux says. “But if it’s snowing down here, it looks to me like the Saints just won the Super Bowl!”