“Lift up your kilt!” Years back, I remember a pack of rabid dumbasses with faux Irish accents screaming this for 15 minutes while we waited in line for portable potties.
“Show me your man boobs!” I screamed back a handful of times while chugging whiskey out of a hollowed-out sunscreen bottle. They weren’t fans that I pointed out their C cups, but I was taller than them, so.
“Man boobs? You have man boobs, lassie!”
Good one, dude. You just U-turned chasing my skirt to insulting me with my own tune.
Glug, glug, glug. I wondered how bad the honey bucket was going to smell if I could ever get to the front of this fucking line. Which better get moving before I rough up these three young, jugtastic dandies in plaid knickers.
On this fateful St. Patrick’s Day, it was neither the drunk dudes nor the toilet’s smell that was going to rue my day. What was going to make me bitterly regret entering that plastic poop shack was something else. I told this fine tale a few years back, so I won’t knit it on a sweater for you, but here’s a refresher: While hovering over the shit-caked loo, the men’s urinal to my right was overflowing. I failed to realize this until I felt it leaking into my combat boot.
Back to your kombucha.
St. Patrick’s Day weekend is in full force and is already jammed with piles of Keggs and Eggs vomit, alley sex, overflowing urinals and hyperactive amateurs washing down benzos with green beer. While you enjoy this festive weekend overstuffed with “Irish You Were Beer” and “Zero Lucks Given” T-shirts (har har har), I’ll leave you with these two ripping fine yarns.
Lúdramán Sheelagh McGillicuddy (doesn’t exist), the fairy godparent of Guinness (nope), has scribed that dark beers boost circulation due to their high iron content (this is true), giving men intense erections (that’ll happen). I took this in stride because McGillicuddy was railing lines of coke in a strip club green room.
Neat, right? Well, a recent study from WalletHub reported that 13 million pints of Guinness are expected to be consumed this year on St. Patrick’s Day weekend. With McGillicuddy’s predictions, boners shall abound.
If they remain in their cage, there’s no need to call the pound. But if they come up for air, well then póg mo thóin, Boner go Braghs. Xoxo, Bangaisgedaig. (Mickey Mouse Clubhouse translation: Kiss my ass, Boner Bros. Xoxo, warrior women.)
Irish he was impeached
In a longstanding tradition, the Irish prime minister gifts the United States president a crystal bowl filled to the brim with shamrocks. The tradition started in 1952 when Harry S. Truman was the big cheese.
On Thursday, Trump accepted one from Irish PM Leo Varadkar (Ireland’s first gay premier, high-five).
“This doesn’t smell like Triangle Kush, Mike,” Trump said to Pence, trying to figure out how to light the giant bowl. “And where’s the carb hole on this thing?”
(Pence was too busy trying to evade “the gay” in the room.)
Be careful out there, friends. No drinking and driving or you get a combat boot full of green beer.