This article is about a man known the world over. He is, quite possibly, one of the biggest celebrities in the history of mankind. He is more famous than the Beatles, Elvis, and even that time-fighter Mona from Who’s the Boss. His name is St. Patrick.
Every year on March 17th, as a way of paying tribute to this legendary man, billions of people around the world get whipped up into a whiskey-induced fury and parade around the intestinal-bile-covered-streets dressed up like the Keebler Elves peaking on PCP. It’s a day full of liver-punishing debauchery where urinary incontinence is rampant, and the party doesn’t end until your buddy is holding a large slab of raw meat over his wife’s right eye and promising her it will never happen again. Ahhhhh, St. Paddy’s Day – the only day of the year where the phrase “Dad’s drunk and not working again” doesn’t seem to sting nearly as bad as it normally does.
Everyone loves St. Patrick’s Day, because on that day, everyone is Irish. It’s such an inclusive celebration. I don’t care if you are a maladjusted, self-mutilating, pre-pubescent emo; a one-legged, 136-lb Laotian rent boy; or a suicide-vest-wearing member of the Mujahedeen – today, you’re Irish. So put down that book on honor killings, throw on something green, grab yourself three-fingers of Jameson and a set of car keys, and get ready to violate some social mores, because this is how a typical St. Paddy’s plays out:
7-10 a.m.: Wake up, pull the Propofol drip out of your arm and try to shake off that reoccurring dream you keep having where you are repeatedly sexually assaulted by a gang of orderlies inside a insane asylum. How about a pre-lunch tumbler of scotch to help block out those repressed childhood memories? Why the hell not? So what if you’re six months behind on your child support payments, prone to volatile mood swings, and you’ve been binging on cocaine and liquid GHB for the last seven days…..it’s St. Paddy’s Day, baby! Drink up!
10 – 1 p.m.: Time to hit the parade. Uh, oh. It looks like we’ve got a problem. You’re gonna have to get past that pesky court-ordered, interlock-ignition-device before you can drive anywhere and you’ve been guzzling like Nic Cage in Leaving Las Vegas. Hmmmmm……what’s a future twelve-stepper to do? Hey, wait a minute. It’s your weekend with the kid. Get that good-for-nothing freeloader to come down from hiding underneath his bed and blow in the tube so you can set off on your long – and at often times windy – drive to the parade.
Although the kid is probably safer at the Second Mile Summer Camp, you might as well bring the little gender-confused miscreant so he can be exposed to things that can only be seen at a St. Patrick’s Day Parade: leprechaun copulation, fetal alcohol syndrome, and watching the town drunk perform a back-alley abortion with a broken whiskey bottle.
1-7 p.m.: Time to hit the post-parade gin joint. This is definitely no place for a minor. You give him a handful of Rupees that you stole from a Sir Lankan call girl and tell him to find his own way home.
Now that he’s gone, it’s truly time to delve into the seedy underbelly of St. Paddy’s Day. First up, a round of Irish Car Bombs for you and your mates! It’s like oxygen to a forest fire, baby. Damn, those suckers were $11 a piece. Fast women, slow ponies, and that damned payday-loan garnishment have left you’re your wallet almost bone dry. Luckily, you managed to swindle that enfeebled old lady out of her Holocaust survivors check with an illegal shell game you set up on top of a cardboard box with three Dixie Cups and a couple of bottle caps. But, do you really want to blow your entire wad on drinks for your pals? Probably should just call in a bomb threat and sneak out when the bar erupts into mass hysteria.
Next, you move onto the bar down the street where you dazzle the crowd with your racist piano playing abilities by only playing the white keys. Luckily, it’s a crowd favorite and you manage to come away with a few tips for your efforts.
You stick around the bar for a few until you casually make eye contact with some wrinkled old prune with a herpetic lip sore. She shyly looks away, but you keep staring, peering over your aviator glasses, slowly running your tongue across the top row of your yellow-stained teeth, while violently rubbing your helmet through your jeans. She’s not the best looking thing in the bar, but beauty is just a light switch away. You approach her and immediately notice her scent: Planned Parenthood. You can tell she’s got a soft spot for the bad boys, so you lean over and whisper to her that your bedroom ways will make the parole officer from the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo seem downright chivalrous.
Your misogynistic vibe is helping to froth her panties, and you know she is ready to leave with you, but unfortunately, she is with her breathtakingly-obnoxious, rotund friend who keeps yelling things like “chicks before dicks” and “ovaries before brovaries.” You need to get rid of this floor-rattling behemoth immediately before she blows your chances with this diseased harlot. You order a cup of hot from the bartender and immediately fling it in her face before sending her flying down a flight of metal stairs while the chick you’re working on is in the bathroom.
7-10 p.m.: The after-bar hookup. Fast forward 30 minutes: you’re back at her place and things are heating up. As you unbutton her form-fitting jeans, you notice a pungent smell of decaying flesh fill the room. You realize that you’ll need to be chugging Penicillin and mainlining Valtrex after this tryst, even though that is akin to dumping a thimble full of water on a raging forest fire. You should probably sprinkle a little delousing powder on that yeast-infested scratch hole to cut through some of the cervical cheese before you start gnawing on it, but you are about 175 drinks deep right now, so you have no difficulty pushing good reason out of your head.
After the first few licks you notice that it tastes like you are dining on a urinal cake, and surprisingly, that turns you on even more. You keep going, twisting your tongue in contortion-like fashion while finger-rolling her venereal warts, but unfortunately, other than the occasional courtesy moan, she is just laying there like a dead fish. Looks like she has a horrible case of liquor clit.
Time to try something else. Delusions of grandeur are running through your head of leaving this old bag hemorrhaging on her bed after one of the greatest pubicle-rattlings of all time, but right now, you are having a hard time lifting the crane. You plead for a suck-start and she kindly obliges. She rubs a little Calamine lotion on the eczema surrounding her mouth and gets down to business. She’s quite talented – as you would expect from someone who has used her mouth as her primary source of income for the last 20 years – and you stiffen up quickly.
You are hovering over her, grinding away, as beads of sweat trickle down your face. She was stretched to the max before you even started with her, so unfortunately, you won’t be able to get friction with both walls. So, you pick one side, rub your member up against it until you unload inside her, and then head off on your merry way. There is probably little-to-no life left in that barren and polluted womb, but better to be safe than sorry, so you sprinkle a little RU-486 in her glass of water as you hit the door running.
You are at home now, and right before you slip into a deep, morphine-induced coma, you reminisce about what a great day you just had, and how none of this would be possible without the philosophies of St. Patrick.