Look at me wedged all up in here. Can I get some space? Can I? All this St. Patrick’s Day nonsense. There’s not even room for my hair.
Oh, the aggravation.
As if none of you self-respecting Stella-guzzling students are puzzled as to the whereabouts of the nearest tap. I know I’ve seen some of you reprehensibly twisted across the bar Barney Gumble-style. MMMMmmmmm, beeeeer.
I will tell you this. As I live smack-dab in Center City, I had to climb over a number of passed out parade-goers this weekend on my way to work, and damn if that isn’t annoying.
As long as you’re wearing some 2-foot top hat with a blinking shamrock pin, you’re somehow exempt from the normal societal constraints. That’s culture. And, it’s here all week. Hoorah.
As my words are spatially numbered this week, I will cut to the chase. Enjoy the Irish heritage to the fullest, even those of you who aren’t of it.
Since I’m typically the funwrecker and because no one else has the balls to, I’m once again here to strap on my responsibility granny panties to save some of you lunatic bar hoppers from total destruction.
Hey, it’s nice that you’re still here. I know that ‘responsibility’ word freaks people out as much as the phrase ‘granny panties.’ And I put both in the same sentence. The audacity.
Girls, a few things. Those green plastic bead necklaces? They’re not diamonds. Please do not end up on camera doing regrettable things for them. I will tell you personally. I have quite a few. I will lend them to you. But really. They are not cool enough for whatever thing you’re asked to do in return. I say this with love.
Also, be aware that some of those leprechauns are after your lucky charms. We all know the tie between late-night drunkenness and morning after awkwardness. As always, to spare my professionalism, I read other people’s CliffsNotes.
Boys, as you tend to be somewhat less negotiable, I will strike fear in your pants with two simple words. Whiskey wiener (again I suffer the senseless copy editing!). The Encyclopedia of Sex defines this unfortunate situation as “a sexual state where the male partner can not ejaculate because of his excessive inebriation.” That’s right, hombre. That last round doesn’t seem like such a good idea now, does it?
Green shots, while festive, are almost always minty or melony. Yuck. This is, however, good for your breath.
It does not smell as good on the way back up. Nor do Irish car bombs. Jameson does not either. Be conscious of this.
Being drunk on St. Patrick’s Day is, admittedly, custom. Celebrating it with friends is as well. Take care of each other. Not remembering the night does not mean you accomplished some right of cultural passage.
It probably means about the opposite. Good Irish folk know how to do it. If you aren’t convinced by this German lass, go ask my authentically Irish boy Aidan at the Bard’s. He’ll tell you. Tip big.
With that, I set you free to terrorize each other in the name of all that is Irish. Put one back for me. I’m off to suck down a Shamrock Shake.
Nadia Stadnycki can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.