Recently, my friend Brett was performing the typical song and dance that most out-of-state students do – entertaining visiting friends from back home. As a local New Orleanian, I took it as my obligation to take Brett’s friend Shane and introduce him to running wild and looking pretty in the city that Choppa and I call home.

The night began innocently enough at a party hosted by the Midge, a sorority girl who, despite her height, can run wilder and look prettier than most. Since this was a celebration, I decided to leave my trailer park chic clothes at home in favor of a classier ensemble. I looked hot and hoped to at least have some over the shirt action with someone before the night was over.

We made our way from the Midge’s to the French Quarter where we dodged beads and breasts. At the Old Absinthe House, I encouraged our guest to sample the Green Fairy.

As rain began to pour, I left the group and met up with a few friends at The Cat’s Meow, where, while grinding like an oversexed lizard to some Gloria Gaynor song, I heard a ripping sound and noticed a strong gust around my sexy parts.

My pants had ripped in half.

Not only had I torn my favorite pair of jeans, but I also had declined to wear underwear that evening because, as I once defended to my mother, “I prefer a light breeze.”

Let me say that, while there is a certain level of promiscuity implied by running wild and looking pretty, I am by no means, for modesty’s sake, a “garden tool.” I actually possess a strong entrepreneurial sense, evident by the fact that I would typically charge for that sort of exposure. But like a true wild runner and pretty looker, I continued through with the night.

Did Helen Keller let being deaf and blind stop her? I think not. So I sure as hell wasn’t going to let a little indecent exposure stop me.

“Besides,” I reasoned, “I have a cute ass.”

Later, as the sun was rising and sidewalk getting hosed, I asked Shane how his night in New Orleans went. “Did you run wild and look pretty?,” I asked.

Although he only mumbled, I was convinced that he did.

“You’ve got the ways and means to New Orleans,” I told him.

As I contemplated whether it’s possible to contract Hepatitis C from my bare butt touching a bar stool at The Dungeon, I began to sing along with the car radio and forced Shane to do the same. I think you all know the lyrics: “Hot child in the city … running wild and looking pretty.”