Luck 'O the Irish...

So yesterday was St. Patrick's Day. Here's the guy we have to thank for it. I'm sure he's pleased as punch that he drove all those snakes from Ireland and brought Jesus and Christianity to it and we thank him by gathering up all the frat boys in the world, putting them in one crowded ass bar until they puke green.

If there's any holiday that I'm more ambivalent toward than Valentine's Day, it would be St. Patrick's Day. Don't know why. I just have never cared. So I'm not wearing green? Pinch me. Fuck it. None of my green clothes were clean, what do you want from me? And I for one, and I know most people in my accquaintance, have never needed a reason or a "holiday" to get shit-housed. Hell, in my world, we just call it Thursday.

I like to be drunk with a small group of friends. An entire city of wasted people in ridiculous hats does not appeal to me in the least. I have never seen the Upper East Side so hoppin'. The parade apparently was right outside my subway stop. I came up and there were all these police barricades and cops and green hats and leering men, and I just had to check the "nyet" box. I passed by these boys playing with their parents in green hats, and this little boy started singing that Ashlee Simpson song. He was kicking a ball and just started going, "You make me wanna La La..." I almost threw up green and I was sober. If there ever was a worse lyricist than Ashlee Simpson, I'd like to see that person arrested for crimes against humanity. And obviously "La La" is a stand-in for sex, but being the good little daughter of a preacher/stagedad prevents her from saying outright, "You make me wanna fuck doggie-style." Even better to hear it from a four year old boy playing soccer.

There I go digressing again.

I picked up enough beer for me, Devon, and Conor for our Thursday ritual, and everyone else can just vomit on each other. And probably did. I did enjoy watching some of the carnage spilling out from our corner bar from the safe distance of my balcony.

So we did our own version of celebrating the Christianization of Ireland by watching that horrible actress on the OC try to fool us into thinking that blank face of hers means she's thinking. That show is like crack though. So there we are, on a "holiday" staying in and watching the tube. And I had a great time, and I didn't vomit green, and you know the conversation is good when out of silence, Conor looks to you and says,

"Did I ever tell you about the time Candice peed on me?"

No. And please don't.

Can I get a Hooray for Friday?!?