9% ABV from a bomber
I’m not sure if this will be a popular sentiment, but I fucking hate St. Patrick’s Day. More specifically, I hate the buffoonery surrounding the faux-holiday. Most specifically, I hate the buffoonery surrounding the faux-holiday celebrations in Manhattan.
As early as daybreak, college dropouts from all over the east coast deluge Penn Station, Grand Central Terminal, and the Staten Island Ferry before slowly woohooing their way toward midtown and Fifth Avenue, clad in their dumbass green t-shirts adorned with dopey sayings (“Erin Go Braless”), ludicrous floppy hats and preposterous glittery shades bought from a street vendor or the Spencer’s Gift at their local shitty mall, and all sorts of other unnecessary accouterments from wristbands to forearmbands to headbands to neckbands. Perhaps even a special “drinking” glove. All green, natch. Many a cliched tattoo will be seen residing on these gents’ and ladies’ fakely tanned anatomies. Very few non-accented sentences will be heard spoken.
My fellow New Yorkers aren’t a happy bunch on weekday mornings, clad in uncomfortable “work” clothing, crammed into mass transit, waiting in long lines for a coffee and a bagel, and nothing is more grating than some spiky haired dolt with a minimal grasp of the English language loading up on a Diet Red Bull mixed with an illicit hotel-sized bottle of Absolut getting in their way as they try to make it to their jobs.
Sitting in their offices, no matter how high of a skyscrapered floor, the bag pipes and plastic horns and drunkener woohooing will have made work today a near impossibility. Looking out the window and seeing the top arc of some tramp’s areolae oozing out of her tank-top (“Irish You Would Buy Me a Beer”) will not make up for such a productiveless day. Lunch will be ordered in so as to keep further interaction with these future reality show contestants minimal.
By now many of my friends are heading home, the end to a shitty day, trekking though the vomit of morons, stepping over the prone bodies of eighteen-year-olds that have never drank more than a few Solo cups of keg beer before today, gasping at the wasted frat boy from some community college digitally stimulating the shitfaced sorority girl from some cosmetology school right out in the open on a Hell’s Kitchen stoop. The regular and usually sedate after-work bars now filled with the few retards whose mothers didn’t give them a curfew to get back home in time for supper. The imbeciles perhaps pressing their luck to catch a later train back to Secaucus while they make one last ditched effort to score with the Rutgers University (major undeclared) chick they first met in some alley around noon as she tried to empty her bladder into a Gatorade bottle (32 oz). Doing shots of Jaeger and slugging cheap macro swill doused with a one-cent drop of green food coloring which causes the chemical reaction of making the pint shoot up to $9 per. At least the city’s tavern workers are making some nice money for a Tuesday. I pity them nonetheless.
This day has obviously been a wash for any one with gray matter between their ears and a lack of venereal disease. That’s life though when your home city is essentially America’s theme park.
Amazingly, I’ve had several people say to me today, “I’d assume you’d like St. Patty’s Day, Aaron.” Do you really think that little of me? Yes, I like booze, revelry, and women of questionable morals acting questionable, but that can be found any day of the week here in the greatest city in the world. (I’d wager those things could be found in your cities as well.)
And as much as I like those things, I hate idiocy, loud obnoxiousness, unskilled imbibing, punny t-shirts and novelty clothing, and especially scheduled fun. I detest St. Patty’s day just like I detest the scheduled “fun” of New Year’s Eve, Fat Tuesday, Saturday nights, and bachelor parties.
Don’t get me wrong, don’t think me a grumpy old curmudgeon, for I’m not above celebrating on those days, but they are just other days to me. Why does one need an event to get drunk, have fun, try to see women’s bare breasts? Do you have that little control over your boring life that you can only party on those mandated days? I know you do, and that’s what makes you an amateur, and that’s what makes those days and nights into amateur days and nights.
As for me, I wouldn’t hit 5th Avenue or enter a Manhattan bar today if you paid me. I’d rather sit at home relaxing and drinking a nice beer by myself such as Flat Earth’s Winter Warlock English barleywine. Dirtyspeed over at Friday Night Beer hooked me up with the semi-rare local Minnesota brew I’d been curious to try for awhile as it is my favorite beer style. Poured much lighter than expected though the bottle does label it a “golden” barleywine which I suppose explains that. I typically expect good barleywines to be a rich amber, a glowing ruby color, so I was a little reluctant. Nevertheless, Winter Warlock was solid. A nice taste of pale malts and candi sugar with quite a bit of yeastiness. Very little hops come through though. The major debit is the beer’s thinness and lack of bite despite the ABV. Pretty good effort though.
Soon, this day will be over and trains, cabs, and street sweepers will eject the St. Patty’s Day nincompoops from our fair city for another 364 more days. And the buffoons will wake up tomorrow, green face paint embedded onto their pillow, woohoo just loud enough to not rattle their hangovers, and spend the rest of the year talking about “The most sick day evah, yo,” praying they can repeat it again next year and continue to annoy us all.
You know what I really like, going out on the day after these amateur drinking holidays. Yeah. That’s when the real pros show up. Sunday night, January 2nd, Fat Wednesday, and St. Patty’s day plus one. So see youse tomorrow. Woohoo!
Epilogue: This is nothing against the actual holiday, which I quite frankly don’t even know what its purpose is. But I’m sure there is one, or was one before it got bastardized by goofy trite white people. I’ll go read about it on Wikipedia.