The Interstate Mullet Toss and Gulf Coast’s Greatest Beach Party

A month ago Clay and I were discussing how best to entertain you all until football season starts again. I suggested he send me to the Masters, but Clay was doubtful they’d give OKTC a press pass. (Golf- so stuffy.) Instead he decides on The Interstate Mullet Toss and Gulf Coast’s Greatest Beach Party at Flora-Bama Lounge, Package and Oyster Bar on the Florida-Alabama line. Mullets and a beach party? IN. I invite my friends Ruthie and April, who will come in handy as photographers and body guards. 

 

 

April, your favorite editor, and Ruthie pre-mullet toss

A google search reveals that we’re not talking about mullets, the hairstyle of choice for everyone with a cellphone clipped to their belts. A mullet is a silver bait fish that weighs about 1 lb. Anyone with $15 can enter the mullet toss in their appropriate age and gender division. To win, you don’t toss the mullet so much as launch it overhand down a massive sand alley without stepping outside of your 10 foot diameter circle or throwing it out of bounds. Then two official looking judges in bikinis measure and record your distance. This all while hundreds of people are watching and two local radio personalities narrate. 

The judges, who are probably great at math. 

The mullet toss portion of the Interstate Mullet Toss and Gulf Coast’s Greatest Beach Party is a spectacle, but that’s not why you should go. You should go for the second half of the title: Gulf’s Greatest Beach Party. To the right of the mullet toss arena is a sea of SEC tents, flags and canopies. It’s like The Grove in Oxford with dance music and more skin. The tailgates have beer pong tables, 6 person beer funnels, generators running margarita and bubble machines, and in one instance, a DJ. April takes this picture, and I send it to Clay. 

I’m expecting a response about the girl in the middle, the reason we took the picture. Clay texts back, “Is that bikini on the right real? And are those fake boobs?” Then 5 minutes later, “I can’t look away.”

As if there were ever any doubt, Clay is a breast man. 

We continue walking around the huge tailgate area taking pictures. The people-watching is world class. 

Showdown: frat bros in redneck costume vs. actual rednecks

 

 

Ladies, if you’re feeling bad about yourselves… maybe you’re going through a breakup or you hate your job or think you’re fat… come here. You will feel like Alabama’s most beautiful woman. Not because everyone else is ugly, far from it, but because the ratio is 3:2 to our advantage. You’ll never buy a drink. “Yes, I would love a beer (only Bud Light for me, please). You’re right, I should have entered the bikini competition. No, I really am old enough to drink.” 

Does that sound terrible? Of course not.

I stop to talk to a guy wearing a Tennessee hat and a Celebrity Tosser pass. I ask him if he knows Clay since he’s a Vol fan. He doesn’t. Then I ask if he’s famous because of his celebrity pass. He points to the Blue Angels flag above his tent and asks if we want to play a game of Battleshots. April accuses the Blue Angels of trying to drug us with punch so for the next two hours they bring us unopened beers for our shots. True gentlemen.

Battleshots proves to be the best worst decision we make all day. April and I lose spectacularly because she started the morning drinking vodka and can no longer comprehend the finer strategic points of the game. And neither of us can pay attention because there are guys walking around in shorts like these:

 

and these:

Plus vodka gummy bears: 

 

Approximately 528 gummy bears later, we leave the Blue Angels to lay out when a Bud Light rep asks us to sign up for the bikini contest. After failing to convince Ruthie or April to do it, I agree on the condition that I can back out at any point and complete a waiver with my information. At the bottom is a line for my signature and directly under that is a place for parental signature.

Alarming.

What’s the minimum age to participate in the bikini contest? Obviously not 18. I tell the rep I’ll bring my mom with me to the main stage at 3 so she can sign it. 

I would never normally participate in a bikini contest, but this is work and I’m a journalist (according to the media pass around my neck and Clay when Flora-Bama emailed to confirm my “credentials”). Me going undercover at the Florabama bikini contest is exactly like Gloria Steinem working at the Playboy Club. (I’m kidding feminists who read OKTC. All 2 of you. It’s not like that at all). 

Ten minutes before the contest, we attempt to re-enter Flora-Bama from the beach and get stopped because of our drinks. Faced with missing my investigative journalism/bikini contest debut or throwing out full beers, we decide to take pictures of the winner afterwards. Except by the time we get in there, another beer and a couple of crawfish later, she has vanished. We did find this contestant wearing more than she should be: 

Luckily some responsible journalist did make it to the bikini contest. You can see pictures here.

The day starts to get hazy at this point. We meet a large bachelor party composed of mostly Alabama grads who hate Clay, so we hang out with them for the rest of the afternoon.

The sun is going down, and we’re dancing in the middle of the bar in front of the band when two bouncers tell me I have to take off my media pass because I’m drinking. Huh? I’ve been drinking in this pass for two days straight. Plus it’s my way in and out of the Flora-Bama. So I tell him that. The next thing that comes out of his mouth is either my lowest moment or greatest accomplishment. He says, “You’re reflecting poorly on the company, drinking and wearing that pass.” I’m reflecting poorly on the company? This is a fish throwing competition. The bikini contest just ended. There is a bachelorette party with both a blow up sex doll and a 4 foot inflatable penis at the table next to us. 

It was all downhill from there. I won’t bore you with the details but it ends with the bouncer threatening to kick me out and the groom-to-be taking my pass off and dragging me through the crowd to get a wristband. April and Ruthie follow me out, and we decide to head back to the hotel. When I tell Clay this story, he says, “Sounds like you were representing OKTC very well.”

Exactly. THIS doesn’t reflect poorly on anyone but my parents. 

After a nap and a shower, Ruthie and I return to the Flora-Bama without April to meet up with the bachelor party. This is what she’s doing:

I’m not exaggerating when I say there are 2,000 people stuffed into Flora-Bama this Saturday night. The door guys stopped letting in anyone without wristbands hours earlier and are instead pointing them towards the bar across the street. We walk out back to the less crowded beach bar to get a drink when the bachelor points at two shadows on the beach. There, in the foggy moonlight, is an enormous woman enthusiastically going down on her boyfriend. 

We sneak up behind them to film the encounter. I am certain we’re going to get killed because these are big people and we are neither sober nor quiet. I can’t think of a more tragic way for my life to end than being murdered during an attempt at filming voyeur porn. Except dying during attempt to film porn hours after competing in the Bud Light bikini contest. 



Regardless, our bravery paid off. Here it is. Our very first OKTC embarrassing fan video: 

Gotcha! Clay wouldn’t let me post that. He does have standards. 

The night ends with Ruthie calling me from the car. She walked there with no shoes and needs me to bring them. It’s now 3 am and the Flora-Bama is closed but I pass a dozen people still drinking in the parking lot. There are beer cans and spare flip flops scattered everywhere. The entire weekend can be summed up by this kid: 

I can’t wait to come back. 

 

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