Preamble: I want to recognize the hard work of Amanda Mastenbrook for creating many of the images in this article. Make sure to check her out at Vintage Modern Love. A huge thank you also goes out to MBQ member Al Mohamed for his written contribution. You can find him on your local sex offender registry.
Now, without further adieu…
After waking up alone on public transit, blow-out arguments with former girlfriends about who-fucking-knows-what, urinating in alleyways and all other manner of bodily expulsion, I like to think of myself as a firsthand expert on being a total asshole on St. Patrick’s Day.
That said, knowledge is power. Granted it’s not the kind of power you get after 7 Irish Carbombs and start thinking “that dude in the Michigan hat totally wants to start shit and yo, I’ll knock his fuckin’ dick in the dirt if he wants to step up…” but power, nonetheless.
Let’s meet the first D-bag of the day, shall we?
The base upon which our rich tapestry of fuckfaces is woven. In his chest sits a shotgunned “Chi-rish” Miller Lite can, pumping life-giving fluid to his 12-watt bulb of a brain.
Broseph came to smash puss and ask questions later. Consequently, those questions are “Yo, where we gonna go smash some puss?”
For this dude, drinking, fighting and fucking are the only items on life’s laminated menu. This isn’t very different from any other day of the year, except there’s more color coordination happening.
Approach with the standard caution you’d use near any glassy-eyed Wrigleyville bro. For Broseph, life is a never-ending Ludacris song and you’d better believe his father has enough money to pay the resulting court costs from breaking your jaw cause you were acting like a bitch.
For the other 364 days of the year, the closest most of us get to contemplating our Irish heritage is marveling at the partially undigested Lucky Charms marshmallows sticking out of our morning stool.
Seamus here takes special pride in his Irish roots and makes damn well certain you know it in the most aggravating ways possible.
On a day where everyone of every race, creed and color just wants to get life-threateningly drunk, Seamus is busy regaling any poor bastard who will listen that he’s actually more Irish than everyone there.
Never mind that he was born in Ohio, this is the type of asshole who refers to himself as “4th generation Irish” or some horseshit like that.
Hey, that’s cool that you can trace your lineage all the way back to “the home country” and recite it on cue. I’m equally impressed you chose this bar specifically because they know how to “pour a proper pint of Guinness.”
You know who’s not? The poor fucking bartender who’s trying to serve the other 800 people in here.
You can also expect they’ll want to put some traditional Irish music on the jukebox. The kind where an old man wails about The Troubles over a piercing tin whistle. That’s way better than dry humping some chick who’s normally out of your league to a Pusha-T joint, right?
A weird but prevalent subset of emerald douche. Embedded in the mindset of many St. Paddy’s revelers is the ironclad belief that the key to a successful holiday is being the first person to start binge drinking that day.
Herein lies the problem: if you spend the majority of your year maintaining a normal drinking regimen, what is it about this magical day that emboldens you with superhuman tolerance?
Oh, that’s right. Nothing.
That girl sitting on the sidewalk crying into her cellphone? She started drinking at 6 AM.
The guy being pinned up against a wall by his friends who are begging him not to go back inside the bar and start shit with the bouncer? Pounding Jamos since 4 AM.
The jacked up bro loudly making jokes about not having to go to the gym tomorrow because he’s been throwing up since noon? Started his day at Midnight with Irish Car Bombs and MetRX bars.
Also, please get out of wherever that dude is. Right now.
Click Below for Page 2 of St. Paddy’s Assholery!