So, St. Patrick can shift back into the shadows now for another year. Reset the Guinness days til clocks in the bars, put away the fake curly hair of the little step dancing girls, race at high speed from almost all Danny Boys, because, as a friend once heard from a piano player, People just cant handle it and put away those ghastly green sweaters and things people wear. Return to Lenten discipline on the question of whiskey. Beer can go on not being green now. The river can get back its natural color, green, instead of its artificial color, green. Somewhere in some alley in this big, powerful city we all call home, youngsters who only a few hours ago were thinking of how late they would have to stay up to plank a bar maid are puking their guts out. Bar maids, on the other hand, are marveling that plastered young men still think they have even a tinkers chance at it. They are longing to take a bath to wash off all that magical St. Patricks day stuff (a mixture of spilled spirits, spit, sweat, manly hand skank from Gawd knows where.) To the bar maids, May your bathwater be hot, smell of lilac, help you relax and rid you of the unpleasant essences and scents of the celebration. I pray you wake up smelling like Spring. Look kindly on me and other older men on non-St. Patricks nights and know in your heart that even guys my age still wonder how late you have to stay up to plank a bar maid. I must report, after decades of study, that in most places, that hour simply does not exist. To the rest of you, a traditional godspeed: May the road rise up to hit you in the face before the devil realizes you have peed in your pants, or something like that.
Posted on: Tue, 18 Mar 2014 04:46:23 +0000
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