Things I thought I wanted, but didn't

So this weekend was the hottest event in Corpus Christi since Bayfest--that's right, Mardi Gras in D-town! (I cannot explain Corpus Christi's strange habit of imposing abbreviations on things that don't need them. We'll note that "D-town" saves no syllables over "downtown." How do you get to D-town? Take the B! You may know it as "the bus.")

Anyway, we were celebrating Mardi Gras in D-town. The event was a pub crawl and we were told that the first 100 people to get stamps from 8 locations would get a prize. Obviously, we wanted a Mardi Gras in D-town t-shirt, because, well, who wouldn't. So we dutifully go from bar to bar (we'll note that only one of them could qualify as a pub in even the loosest construction of the term) and get our 8 stamps. Do we get the prize? No. No one can convince me that there were even 100 people participating in this nonsense, but whatever.

If it was a legitimate delay that prevented our t-shirt consummation, I can pinpoint the cause.

Yes, it was the D-town tram. "The B?" you're thinking. No, a special tram, just for Mardi Gras in D-town purposes. You doubt me, but I have a photo. 

"Ok, that's a ridiculous tram," you're thinking, "with open sides and designed to drive you from bar to bar, even though no bar in D-town is further than a block from any other bar in D-town and considering the one-way streets in D-town, it will take at least 3 times longer to ride than to walk, and it still won't prevent drunk driving because you have to drive to and from D-town." Fine. "But," you're thinking, "how do I know that you rode it, Em, and that it was the cause of your delay?"

Well, for that proof, you would have to see a photograph of me on the tram. And me being myself, I was unable to take such a picture. Fortunately, someone else did. For said evidence, you'll have to visit the Mardi Gras in D-town Myspace Page (seriously, it exists, and seriously, my picture is on it).

So that is the story of my failure to obtain a Mardi Gras in D-town t-shirt. But all is not lost. Anne, genius that she is, still got us some t-shirts. She saw a woman handing out shirts, she beckoned, she made it happen. Little did we know. 

This woman was a Malibu representative, so we got Malibu t-shirts.¹ As soon as we saw them, we wanted to return them, but that seemed gauche. 

What do they say? "Check out our coconuts!" splashed across the chest. (1) There is no appropriate context for this. (2) Any wearing of this slogan would be self-deprecatingly ironic, me looking like me. (3) Other issues aside, it's slightly weird to talk about your tits using the Royal We. Sigh. But now I own said t-shirt and for reason I think are clear, I can't really be rid of it, though I can also not wear it.

¹You're noting an ambiguity, so I'll clarify immediately. I'm talking about Malibu the coconut rum, not Malibu the American Gladiator. Because obviously, any t-shirt endorsing Malibu the Gladiator, that's a shirt I would be proud to wear. (And honestly, if you ever follow anything I link, it should be this. Thanks V.)