Everything is wrong with me
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
 
St. Patty's Day - Southie Style
I think that this St. Patrick’s Day will be rather quiet for me, because a) it’s on a Wednesday and I have a meeting tomorrow that I really, really shouldn’t be hungover for, and b) I’m going to be celebrating St. Patrick’s Day in Boston this weekend.

My friends Dave, Mark and Bill (previously mentioned, of “Average Joe 2” fame) live in South Boston, and every year they have a huge party to celebrate the parade that goes through the neighborhood on Sunday. I’ve been to their place the past two years for St. Patrick’s Day, but I’ve never actually seen the parade, because it’s outside and the beer is inside, and well, you know.

Still, it’s developed into quite a tradition. Bill, Dave and I, three guys who most probably wouldn’t describe as “petite” or even “just a little overweight”, start the day by making a traditional Irish breakfast for everyone. Not long after that, we each drink about ninety beers, and I try to make out with all the girls I went to college with, who, shockingly, reject me, just as they did in college. Then I start telling them about how much money I make now, and show them a copy of my W-2 form. That’s usually when they walk away, or say something like, “Bill, Jason’s really creeping me out. Can you lure him away with the promise of a sandwich or something?”

I’m trying to think of stories from previous St. Patty’s Days that I’ve spent in Boston, and, honestly, I’m drawing a blank. I got nothing. This probably has something to do with the beers and the whiskey, but I’m not positive. No, no - I am positive it has something to do with the beers and the whiskey.

But for this St. Patrick’s Day, I am going to try to set a goal for myself: I want to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes. For some, this might be no big deal, but I’ve had about twelve cigarettes in my entire life. I only smoke when I’m uncomfortable and drunk, so that means the occasional cigarette at a bar when I’m forced to talk to a girl (this was rare but now never happens because of the smoking ban in NYC), and lots of cigarettes at strip clubs.

So there you have it. In honor of the great St. Patrick (who, I’d like to point out to all my Italian friends, was NOT Italian, but rather a Briton who was born under Roman rule) and my heritage, I am going to get really fucked up, smoke a ton of cigarettes, and generally embarrass myself. I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes – once the hangover wears off, that is.



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