Ah, St. Patrick’s Day. A glorious excuse for one of the drunkest cities in the nation to drink. All. day. long. Have trouble getting up for that pesky job or class before 8 am? Such is not the case today. Today the wee hours of morning fill the ears of underagers, dudebros and veterans alike with the sounds of birds chirping, teeny boppers giggling (followed promptly by barfing, no doubt, then more giggling) and intoxicated cheers for the patron of the blessed day (which only get louder and more incoherent with its unfolding).
It’s the same every year, same at every bar. Your prize for dragging your sluggish ass out of bed at 6 am is the annual “I got up this early to show how how much I can drink and how awesome I am” t-shirt, a $2 pint of watery ogre piss and the aforementioned actions of your drunken cohorts. So what is it about getting up so goddamned early and drinking all day that is so awesome? In a word: everything.
I, myself, am getting too old to partake in the childish antics of the lesser yeared pussy patrol, but, once upon a time, that was me. In past years (of what I can actually recall), I have :collected two early riser t-shirts (in one morning, count ’em!), partaken in a “shamrock stumble” in which I took off my pants at a bar (as well as received an invitation to stand up in my friends’ wedding -successful night, if I do say), gotten into a heated argument with an Irish man who refused to give me his hat (and was promptly escorted out by a concerned, intervening pal), walked out on a dinner bill (which, as a member of the service industry, am ashamed of), danced a jig or two (duh), waited for drinks, paid for drinks, spilled drinks, taken shots, bar hopped and fence hopped, ending each marvelous year in bed by 8 pm.
This year I have to work. This year it will be me on the other end (although I work at a quieter bar and grill in a suburb, not in the hubbub of downtown). This year, I am sober. At least for now. It is St. Patrick’s Day, after all.