I picked myself up off the concrete. I was still clutching an expensive bottle of Polish vodka in one hand and my cigarette in the other.

I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed my face-first dive to the concrete, but by this time, I don’t think anyone even cared to notice.

It was four in the morning, and I had just gotten tossed out of Republic, an upscale nightclub in downtown New Orleans. I did, however, manage to smuggle out a $100 bottle of vodka.

Just as I was getting to my feet, my buddy Steve grabbed me. “Look, Johnny, I’m telling you this ’cause I’m your friend. You’re way too wasted. You should probably just call it a night and go home.”

Of course, I wasn’t having it. “You trying to tell me what to do, huh?” I said, like a drunken jackass.

“No. I’m trying to be a friend and give you some advice. You just fell on your face in front of a bunch of cops, you’re holding a stolen bottle of liquor from a club you just got thrown out of, and now you’re arguing with me. I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just stating the facts.”

For a moment, I thought about punching him Snooki-style. Bam! Right in the face. But Steve’s like my bodyguard, a 220-pound ex-Marine, and a good friend.

Besides, if I would’ve hit him, I think I may have been the one getting dropped like Snooki. Bam! I’m on the ground — again.

I had a moment of clarity, realized Steve was right, turned toward the street, jumped in a cab with my vodka, and rolled out. Besides, I had to be in peak condition for the Saints-Vikings game the next day.

The whole situation started a couple hours before. A buddy of mine got us into the V.I.P. section upstairs in the club. It was a nice little spot, overlooking the downstairs dance floor, and we had everything: leather couches, hot girls dancing to some booty-poppin’ music, not to mention a ridiculous amount of liquor.

I was way too excited. I felt like a 15-year-old boy getting his first piece of tail. I just went way too quick — started slamming drinks, dancing with girls (NOT fist pumping; well, maybe a little fist pump here and there).

I remember one of the girls telling my buddy, “What are you doing? Get your fist pump out of my face!” Then a few, short, blacked-out hours later, I’m falling on my face on the sidewalk.

Wow! MTV struck gold with Jersey Shore. Everybody’s getting into that stupidity.

I can’t lie; I love it, too. The cast just gets hammered every night and someone gets in a fight, gets hit, or gets f—ked in every episode. Sounds like my articles. Great entertainment!

The next day, I rolled out of bed at about two in the afternoon. I was hungover, but still kind of drunk, too. So I felt sh—tty, but I still had a nice little buzz.

I started to call around to see what my friends were doing for the game. My buddy answered the phone.

“Good morning, Mr. Valentine. We’re right down the street from your house; you want us to come pick you up?”

“Nah, man. I just rolled out of bed. I’m not dressed or anything.”

“Bullsh—t! Get it together. We’ll be out there in 10 minutes.”

I brushed my teeth, threw on some clothes, and stumbled out the door. We ended up watching the game at Lucy’s, a bar a couple of blocks from the Dome.

It was a great time. People were laughing, crying, passing out in the street, hugging, kissing, and chanting. We jumped in a second line and marched down the streets. It was a blast. For a moment, I thought I was having an acid flashback, but I think I heard that’s just a myth. (What a drag!)

Everyone’s on the bandwagon now. The local news talks about nothing but Saints, Saints, Saints, Saints, Saints.

Miami’s about to be flooded with some of the most excited, obnoxious drunks that have ever graced this planet. It’s a different breed down here, cha.

Miamians better pray the Saints win, because I don’t know if a Miami jail could hold all of these unruly Saints fans. They should consider turning the stadium into a holding facility after the game.

Happy Friday! Go Saints!