St. Patrick’s Day

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.

— Jeff

Fancy Cocktails

I’m a fairly simple girl. It doesn’t take a lot of bells and whistles to make me happy. Which is why when I see my female comrades (and certain male friends too) order some fancy cocktail nonsense, I can’t help but cringe in despair.

I like some fruity drinks. A mojito in summer. A margarita on the beach. But you’re not impressing anyone with your four-fruit colada. As a rule, drinks should be made with as few ingredients as possible. Why must you overcomplicate a boozy night on the town? If you want something sweet, order the cake, not the chocolate ravage. It will take the bartender ten seconds to pull a pint or pour my scotch. You’re backing up the line and wasting everyone’s time with your super deluxe “martini.”

A martini should be made one way: with gin.

Or maybe I just break too many long-stemmed glasses.

— Andrea

Roller Coasters

no thanks

I have had more fun in car accidents than on roller coasters. Tell my friends this, and they look at me like I’m some sort of pusillanimous pariah. And when I explain that I loathe sweltering in line under the unforgiving sun for 50 minutes surrounded by assholes in tank tops and screaming children that aspire to be assholes in tank tops, just to be jerked around for three minutes on some death ride maintained by a crew with excessive acne and obvious deficiencies in the English language, and all of a sudden I’m not just a complaining borderline homo: I’m a joy-killing bigot. Well suck it bitches. If the operations staff is a bunch of just paroled convicts who look like they just wandered off the set of “To Catch a Predator,” I’m going to pass.

So, fuck Johnny Depp and his pirate-themed rides. I thought there’d be rum and whores, not white trash and fanny packs. If you want it fast and upside-down, babe, all we need is four shots, a tray of ice cubes, and a headboard. You can stand in the sun for an hour beforehand if that’s what you call foreplay. If I really want a thrill, I’ll get blind-drunk and run down the G-dubs Bridge in my undershorts, again. It won’t cost $25, and at least my vomit will smell like Scotch, not cotton candy.

Or maybe I just scare easily.

–Jeff