by Marty Dubecky, Staff Writer

This Tuesday marked the 2025th annual Fat Tuesday (aka Mardi Gras). Much more importantly, though, it was the 22nd annual Marty Gras, the superior holiday.

Mardi Gras is not that cool. Everyone knows that Fat Tuesday is just made up and not really a PC name anymore. Over the years of observing Mardi Gras and realizing how much it could be improved, I decided to rebrand. Now, for me, every Mardi Gras is Marty Gras. This is cooler because my name is Marty and I am cool.

The beauty of Marty Gras is that it takes a new shape every year. I am constantly evolving as a person, and so too is the celebration. Before telling of the wonders this year had to offer, let’s take a look back at Marty Gras previous.

Marty Gras: Age 6

This one was awesome. My first beer, my first tattoo and my first year of kindergarten almost done. I celebrated mostly with my parents and sisters, so it got weird when I started taking off my shirt for beads. But all in all, it was a solid celebration.

Marty Gras: Age 18

I will always remember this one. The pressure was on. I was a true adult according to the law, and knew I would be tried as an adult if I broke any laws. This made breaking the laws so much better. I had that extra nagging in my ear telling me maybe I should not burn effigies this year (effigies of Pontius Pilate of course — screw that guy).

Marty Gras: Age 22 (This year)

If you saw me yesterday, pretend that you did not. I was with that gaggle of friends parading though Xavier’s campus playing “Oh When The Saints Go Marching In” on empty beer cans. 

At one point, the Blue Blob and I engaged ourselves in a beignet eat off. I have no idea where the beignets came from, and I cannot confirm if that was the real Blue Blob or not. Photos from last night tell a different story. My Lenten promise is to lay off the sauce, so I had to guzzle down as many brews as possible. I think I did at least two!

Marty Gras is b*tchin’. It is a day to celebrate not just me, but everything that makes me a cool person. Growing up, all the old people in church were solemn and did not talk much on Ash Wednesday. The priest says something real bleak about dust and then we don’t sing until like Easter. I never knew why everyone was so sad all the time for Lent until I really went in on my first Marty Gras. I was so hungover afterwards; I think it lasted 40 days. What’s better than that? Celebrating me, living in true excess and gluttony, showing my grandma how pious you can be for lent and exposing my nips for religious reasons— this holiday has it all.

Next year, hit my line and join my Marty Gras celebration. You do not have to travel all the way to New Orleans— I bring the Big Easy here. I’m graduating too which means I won’t have a job, I’ll just have more time to plan the bash.