Erin Go Bragh-less

March 16, 2011 § 4 Comments

St. Paddy’s Day, an alchoholiday of good friends, good food, good booze, and dreaded by bartenders across the land. It’s an amateur drinker’s day. This day is most likely to result in a few vomit stains. These people order sugary green drinks that go down easy and come up hard. Same shit that happens on New Years Eve except people don’t have to go to work the next day.

Everyone’s Irish on March 17th.” False. You don’t have to deal with bad tempers, bad weather, sunburns, freckles, or extended family fist fights year round, so let us have our day. And stop turning all the food green. That has got to be the biggest insult. Irish cuisine is not clover-shaped sugar cookies laced with food coloring. My family would convene at my grandmother’s house to feast on a corned beef and cabbage spread, which is actually and Irish-American tradition, or ham (she made the best ham), tumblers of whiskey, pints of Guinness, and coffee with homemade Irish Cream. None of it green! Of course things got rowdy, out of hand, blurry and slurry, but that’s how we Irish are!

I know the Irish are generally jolly, easygoing people until they’ve had too much Jameson, but I’ve got some bellyaching to do. St Patrick did not wear Mardi Gras Beads or drink anything with Midori Melon. Although I’ve never actually seen an Irishman turn down a jello shot, it’s not part of any tradition. I can’t stand an Asian chick in a green baby-tee that reads: Kiss Me I’m Irish. No you are not, and you’ll get smooched consistently by any nerd with an anime fetish. I’ve got to walk around my entire life with this Irish face, let me have my kisses. If you’re not a regular, get out of my pub! This divvy place is my second home, and you just can’t appreciate it when it’s jammed to the rafters with spring breakers making fun of leprechauns. I’ll go to British place across the street… it will hurt my soul, but I’ll do it to avoid the crowds of pub-crawlers just using the patron saint of Ireland as excuse to get wasted and hook up.

But alas, I digress, I can’t be angry about this slaughter of my holiday for long, it wouldn’t be very Irish of me. It might just be the perfect day to reconnect with the ginger-haired bartender with the Trifecta of the Charming Man. I’ll stumble into his pub after too many pints, push all the St. Paddy’s day commercialism aside, and see if his Irish eyes are smiling. Sure, they’ll steal my heart away.

Everyone please, proceed with your plans to drink until Erin goes bragh-less. Blarney it up. May you kiss many Irish people (and other people who sport words on a shirt or a pin), may you get many complements on your funny green hats, and may you make many a great toast to the culture who’s reputation precedes them, we’re some lucky drunks. When celebrating Ireland, there are no rules as long as you make a good toast: As you slide down the banister of life, may the splinters never point in the wrong direction.

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