Original Post: March 16, 2005
A day of Green clovers and drunken escapades on a serious mission to celebrate the gift of life by slowly poisoning ourselves with green beer and irish car bombs, St. Patricks day is the pseudo Irish Holiday that has become an Americanized past time full of inebriated debochery. How did we get from a holiday meant to honor the Christian endeavors of a Scottsman turned Irish Catholic Missionary, to a day of green dyed miller lite, green thongs, and guiness holding jaugernauts with Cornbeef and Cabbage in their stomachs on a rampage pub crawl that would make Jim Belushi blush? Who Cares! It's fucken St. Patricks day! The All Irish American excuse to get drunk until you piss yourself. Certain times of year are like claiming temporary insanity. Where Spring break is an excuse to get laid, with the all encompassing argument, 'What did you expect, it was Spring Break?', St. Patty's is a day where you can get away with puking in your friends car.
'Sorry about your car dawg, I don't remember anything after the fourth Irish Car bomb.'
- You
'It's okay don't worry about it, I hope you had a good St. Patty's day.'
- Your friend
It's also a day dreaded by my special friend, my liver. You see, my liver and I have an epic romantic comedy of a Love-Hate relationship that leaves the two of us with more hot and cold swings than a kid with the flu. During the day, my liver pretty much hates my guts (well my guts are always crowding him in there, n shit), and conspires to kill me in 'Et tu Brute' fashion.
Normally it complains, What the fuck man! You go out all night and have a good old time, but look at me! I'm more shrivelled up than beef Jerkey! I look worse than a 3 pack a day 80yr old woman! This is fucked up! No surgery can fix this!'
I typically respond with an understated apology, 'Look, I'm sorry liver. I'll never drink again.' Why do I flat out lie to my liver?
Because as soon as I get drunk, my liver sings a different tune, 'I Luv youuuuuuu Maaaan! No, no no, really, I'm serious. . .I. . .LOVE. . . YOU MAN!' In a scene reminiscent of Edward Norton and Brad Pitt in Fight Club after their first fight, My liver and I get all chummy over a good beer. I honestly respond: 'No Liver, I love you! I'm a LIVER LOVER!!!' We sit and stare at eachother soaking in the momment of alcoholic bliss. That is until I sober up and my liver realizes how badly I punish him.
One day, my liver is going to try to cut it's way out of my body with a little saw, pushing a liver-shaped block out of my abdomen, and it will make its jailbreak escape hiding from search lights as I hunt it down. More than likely It will try to make a break for it, before St. Patrick's Day. This is because St. Patty's is the masochistic equivalent to a Valentines Day with my liver. I festively select gifts for it, from Guiness, to green beer, to Bailey's Irish Creme, to flat out whiskey. I know that my Liver's coy avoidance of the day's adventures will be short lived and will soon join me in a great rendition of 'whiskey your the devil'. Hidden beneath my green shirt on St. Patty's will be a Guinness soaked party extrodinaire of an internal organ singing kareoki and dancing a jig.
On St. Patty's everyone also claims to be Irish as though it gives them a sacred right to be the sloppiest one in the bar, condemning all others for being drunk on their day, but who cares! St. Patrick himself wasn't even born Irish! Such a wonderful day should not be wasted debating ethnic lineage when it could be spent in the celebration of life itself, by poisoning our livers with the nectar of the gods milked from fermented hops. So Happy St. Patty's Day to all. . .and to All. . .a 'Fuck off ye bastard, I'm pisst droonk and coold fancy a plate of bangurs n mash, eh.'
In the words of one of the band UVR:
Talk real slow,
But it feels real fine.
If you gotta puke man,
Go outside. . .
Cuz, Killing myself
Makes me feel Aliiiiiive.
Cheers,
-MM
Currently watching:
The Seventh Seal - Criterion Collection
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