Me read where Gambit editor Clancy DuBos deem Chris Rose post-Katrina columns “Pulitzer-worthy.” Me wonder if DuBos speak specifically about Rose column bitching about people driving with cell phones. That story hit home. Me not able to turn off Comedy Central every time comedian tackle such groundbreaking material. Or maybe DuBos mean one where Rose refer to Nagin as Willy Wonka. If me asshole editors come up with that one two months before Rose, what prize await them in world of Clancy DuBos?

Me have dedicated meself to idea of stress reduction. But me sympathize with emotional strain felt by citizens of city, which is why me attend 2nd anniversary of Wild Lotus Yoga Studio in Uptown. Me not engage in yoga since back in early 70s when George Harrison ask me to accompany him on ashram while he reeling from Eric Clapton stealing his wife. Eastern philosophy not agree with me then, but me more open-minded now that it multi-billion dollar industry.

Me speak with Wild Lotus owner Sean Johnson and instructor Beverly Morris. Studio having much success in aftermath of Hurricane. Me able to tour new expanded area and get chair massage from soft-pawed Jeremy.

Later me talk with Red sox fan and instructor Elaina Petrucci and instructors Cheryl Golich and Stacey Gengel. Friendliness from Wild Lotus staff help me to forget hostility of outside world. Me live for week free from negative thought until me recruited to emcee NOLA Fugees reading at Handsome Willy’s last Saturday night.

Me initially not want to take gig. Me needed to focus on Super Bowl to try to recoup heavy losses from rest of playoffs after me listen to silver tongue of NOLAFugees handicapper Jack Moss. This time me not even ask him; bet with gut. Super Bowl cash-in give me bankroll to wager on mayoral race. But bar owner Justin Micaroni offer me free Scotch, so me unable to refuse.

Event a breeze. After all, unlike rest of NOLA Fugees staff, me a professional. Me could have phoned in show. Or maybe it yoga that keep mind clear for optimal performance? Either way, it not matter. Trouble begin once Scotch kick in and me start to mingle with Handsome Willy’s bitches in attendance.

Me mostly remember bounce tracks coming from new sound system and constant flash from digital camera. Optimism in air. For good while me forget about Super Bowl and relish in companionship of amicable bitches.

Then memory fade. Me wake up in darkness, far from gentle assurances of yoga. Me told by editors that me victimized by short fuse of jealous boyfriend from Kenner. Me not look for revenge. Me empathize with impulse. Me only wonder if George Harrison in flush of anger felt like putting boot to Eric Clapton’s skull.

Me spend Sunday pickled on Vicodin. Put in bet on Bodog.com then crawl down to Bacco for birthday lunch for Tennesee Williams Fest bitch Karissa Kary. Me bestow gift and affections, but soon me fall ill. Ten cent Martini help soothe head, but soul need much more work.

Me blackout on trip back to NOLAFugees office , but me make it in time for kickoff and find out kiss of death: me and handicapper Moss place same bet. It too late too change bet.

Me bet Seattle.