Floyd Kelly

On a classic dreary autumn day in Jefferson Parish, my girl, Charlotte, insisted we go to The Annual Belching Shrimp Festival, speaking of it with a reverence that, for my first time, had me worried.

When we arrived, the fairgrounds delivered a wall of sound and crowd. The air, thick with the smell of fried batter and boiled shrimp, a chaotic web of lasers cutting through fog machine mist. We pushed through the roaring crowd until we were pressed against the main stage barrier, passing food booths selling things like “Cajun-fried Cotton Candy, Shrimp Lemonade, Buttered Shrimp Popsicles,” and oh no, “Shrimp Fruitcake.” One after another, people dressed in shrimp costumes ­… a man on stilts.

A woman wearing a stained badge and with wild frantic eyes stepped right in front of me. “First timer?” she rasped. I kind of nodded. “Wanna do the Flingata Maroo!?”

Before I could even ask what that was, Charlotte chuckled and gave me a shove. “Oh, she’d love to!”

Things got weird. In a side tent, I changed into some well-used lederhosen and a pointy red hat while the emcee’s booming voice egged on the crowd. They guided me to the main stage, which was covered in marinara sauce, and pointed to a giant fishbowl holding the festival’s mascot: a large shrimp.

“Flingata Maroo!” the crowd chanted. “Flingata Maroo!”

I took a few steps, my foot found a puddle of sauce, the world tilted sideways, and then came the splash. I had landed with a thud in a giant vat full of cold, large shrimp.

“Flingata Maroo!” the people screamed as I lay there in shock for about 30 seconds.

Then, a sudden hush fell over everyone. The place became quiet. The emcee’s voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “Listen,” he said, as he dramatically extended his mic to the shrimp in the bowl. “The sacred call!” From the speakers came a loud dark belch, then a wimpy cartoon character’s voice, squeaking, “Flingata Maroo!” then the crowd did a human wave yelling “Flingata Maroo!” Wild!

All eyes were on me. The spotlight was bright. Slowly, I got up from the vat, dripping with marinara and shrimp stuck all over me.

The second I was upright, a brass band erupted into a triumphant fanfare, and the crowd yelled, “Flingata Maroo!”, another human wave of crowd wildness, “Flingata Maroo!”

The emcee raised his arms. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his voice filled with emotion, “we have a winner! She has delivered the most glorious, most perfect… Flingata Maroo!”

On the drive home, I asked Charlotte what “Flingata Maroo!” means. She said “Well, the closest way to say it is … Life is Like Buttah!”