Sunday Is Not Just St. Patrick’s Day
We’re all very excited to drink ourselves interesting this weekend. I get it! Really. Given half the chance I would be right there with you, pressuring someone to do another car bomb even though they’re asleep facedown in a bowl of peanuts. But St. Patrick’s Day isn’t just a holiday that celebrates the migration of everyone in New Jersey to the shittiest midtown pubs with Mc or O’ in the name. It’s also my birthday.
So no, intoxicated girl in face paint and shamrock antennae, I suppose I can’t just take it in stride when you fall and spill your beer on me and tell me that I look like James Van Der Beek. If this were a mere bacchanal, such a comment could pass without incident. BUT THIS IS THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY BIRTH, AND I WILL NOT BROOK COMPARISON TO DAWSON. Also, can the rest of you get out of my bar? I’m trying to have a party here.
No, of course you can’t, and this is what I am doomed to: there is no going out to celebrate without going out for St. Patrick’s Day. I have to wear green if I don’t want to get pinched or punched. There’s a good chance I’ll step in puke. And if, as a present to myself, I want to get plastered and act a fool, I’m one of eight thousand guys in that zip code doing exactly that. Doubt the cops will make a birthday exception for me when they’re loading us into the paddywagon.
Follow Miles Klee on Twitter.