Here is my contribution to the sloshing, joshing holiday that is St. Patrick's Day: a shamrock-esque bathroom floor*, which is something many people will be using as a woobie when they pass out tonight. My chiropractor asked if I was going out for the occasion, and I said, "no it's not really my thing." There was a time when it might have been my thing. Back when I challenged boys to keg stands and made a habit out of waking up covered in my own vomit. Pretty picture, isn't it? Sadly, it happened more than once. And sometimes it wasn't just my own shirt that got soiled.
They (oh naming powers that be) should dub tomorrow Stale Beer Smell Day. Example: when Charrow and I took a weekend trip to Savannah, GA we made the mistake of going the day after St. Patrick's Day. Maybe you're thinking oh, Savannah, what a sleepy little southern town filled with weeping willows and beautiful town squares where people eat ice cream cones and chat about the health of the GA bulldog. Oh, no. Splashes of dried puke dotted the sidewalks down by the waterfront and groups of hungover college kids wandered the streets in search of greasy food salvation. The alleyways smelled like the inside of a frat house toilet and the restaurant we went to after our 12 mile run was brimming with sodden rugby players that consumed all of the hamburgers (sorry, rugby loving friends).
* from the bathroom of El Beit in Williamsburg