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.
Posted in Begrudged Maturity, Holidays, Societal Woes
Tagged bars, beer, drinking, Holidays, Irish, scotch, should but don't, shouldbutdont, squalor, St. Patrick's Day, St. Patty's Day, twenty-something, whiskey
I have a problem. It’s very serious. I’m going to the University of Chicago vs. NYU basketball game tonight, and I can’t figure out how to stay pleasantly tipsy through the two-plus hours of sloppy comedy they pretend to be “basketball.” If I’m going to watch a group of nerds butcher the game so badly, I’m going to need more than a glass.
The obvious solution would be a flask. I own two. But I can’t stomach the idea of swigging vodka in the middle of a crowded gym that smells like sweat and college students. Or maybe there is a bigger problem: I just don’t like taking shots.
Shots seem like an integral part of the twenty-something experience. Bad day? Shot of whiskey. Goin’ clubbin’? Take tequila. At that horrible East Village bar you can get five shots for $10, but have fun fighting the punks for them. There are fancy shots and flaming shots and foul shots. A shot for every occasion. But not for me.
Shots and I go way back, and I think it’s time to call it quits. We had our fun when I was underage and stupid. But they led to far too many embarrassing situations, questionable men, and bad dance moves. Now 23 (and probably still stupid), I want liquor with more sophistication than a frat party. Especially before midnight.
After the emotional and intellectual torture of college, can you really blame me? I guess this is what “school spirit” gets you these days.
Posted in Begrudged Maturity, Fine Dining
Tagged basketball, drinking, embarrassment, frat parties, new york, nyu, school spirit, shots, Sports, tequila, the continental, twenty-something, underage, university of chicago, whiskey
Really, I pity them. I did my time too: copying, filing, handing out mail. My fingers were paper-cut and coffee-stained; my soul, crushed. All for $7.15 an hour and a written recommendation. This is why I lived in an unheated sublet, accrued thousands in debt, and lost 20 pounds. (If you’re going to make me choose between food and liquor, I’ll take the latter.)
Internships are fundamentally unfair—a pseudo-slavery of the young, bright, and motivated. Hey, I was there. It’s a rite of passage. Today internships are a necessary evil after you get that liberal arts degree. Something about “connections.” Pay off your college loans later, bitch.
You know I don’t need that contract mailed tonight, but damn it, I’ll demand it. Copy this document. Now shred both. You’d better wear a tie tomorrow even though I slept in my clothes, and you think you still smell scotch on my breath. Whatever, intern (if that is your real name). I have health insurance and a 401k (whatever that is). This means I OWN YOU. (At least when my boss isn’t looking.)
And all you aspiring Should But Don’t interns, remember this: I like my coffee like I like my men—with whiskey.
Run along, now. Someday you’ll get your chance, too.