As a drinker St. Patrick’s Day fails completely as a holiday. What would have normally been an enjoyable night at my local pub has now been ruined by the influx of assholes wearing green that have swarmed seemingly every bar in the city.
When I think of the holiday now, my first thought is not of the Irish, but rather a plague of verdant locus, a green mob of drunken assholes destroying everything that it comes in contact with. My favorite bar? Now overrun with a bunch of animal-house types who have valiantly, yet with no signs of composer or skill, been imbibing since the morning. They crowd the counter and spill their drinks in a misbegotten orgy of high-fives and chest bumps. The sidewalks are splotched with lime tinged vomit. Cabs are impossible to get. That cute girl at my local that I have been slowly mustering the courage to talk is now being hit on by a dozen preppy looking douche bags wearing Guinness baseball hats and green polo shirts. The beer I liked? Now perverted with green food dye. The pub food I crave? Not tonight, they’re too busy. Everything that was sacred at my bar – my temple – unremorsefully stuprated and debauched. What should have been a joyous evening turned into a surreal nightmare of sacrilege.
St. Patrick may have succeeded in driving the snakes out of Ireland, but he also managed to drive all the pricks to the bars one night a year. If you want to find me next St. Patty’s Day I’ll be at home with a bottle of scotch and six-pack of Bass.