Cast aside petty distractions like girls, conversation, and accepted norms of human behavior, and focus on what really matters this March 17.
-By Drew Magary • Illustration by Tom Richmond
No one gets laid on St. Patrick’s Day. I certainly never have. It’s a sexual impossibility, on par with the fabled kneeling-pretzel position. But that’s okay. St. Paddy’s is not a day for trying to get laid. This is a day to celebrate your own slavish devotion to alcohol. It’s the one day of the year when, as a man, you can drop your constant, dogged pursuit of the other sex. Shouldn’t there be a day when we don’t have to be obsessive perverts, and can simply be belligerent alcoholics? I say yes.
With that in mind, allow me to set your St. Pat’s itinerary for this year. The nice thing is that it falls on a Tuesday. If you’re like me, you often reserve Tuesday as that one day of the week on which you don’t drink, just so you can fool yourself into thinking you have some semblance of control over your alcoholism. But you don’t have to worry about that the week of March 17! Fuck, yeah!
8:30 A.M. — Wake up.
8:40 A.M. — Proper Irish breakfast of blood sausages, eggs cooked in blood-sausage grease, Irish bacon (the prime rib of bacon), huge fucking bowl of Lucky Charms.
9:00 A.M. — Get dressed without showering, shaving, brushing teeth, clipping nails, or combing hair.
9:20 A.M. — Sprinkle sawdust all over apartment.
9:25 A.M. — Don only green shirt you have, which used to be a bright kelly green, but has faded over time to a sickly shade, like a zucchini gone bad.
9:30 A.M. — Fill hip flask with Jameson.
9:35 A.M. — Realize hip flask is insufficient. Place entire bottle of Jameson in inside pocket of sports coat.
10:05 A.M. — Spend morning at work filling out your NCAA Tournament bracket. Pick Duke to lose in the second round. Why? Because fuck Duke, that’s why.
12:30 P.M. — Sneak out with coworker to nearby Irish pub that isn’t really Irish and isn’t really a pub. I’m talking about you, Tír Na Nóg!
12:33 P.M. — Get first beer from sassy Irish barmaid. Place to lips. Oh, God, that tastes so good. If only you could just dive into the glass and let the frosty goodness seep into every orifice.
12:34 P.M. — Second beer.
12:35 P.M. — Third beer.
1:00 P.M. — Should you have a fourth beer at lunch? Fuck it. You’re having your fourth beer at lunch!
1:05 P.M. — Back at work. God, that fluorescent light. It hurts your brain. Who installed that in your office? What a dick.
3:00 P.M. — Sneak out of work. Pay tribute to Joyce’s Ulysses by masturbating on beach to nearby girl.
3:10 P.M. — Back to work.
5:00 P.M. — Leave work. Head straight back to bar.
5:05 P.M. — Say, how come no girls are out at the bar tonight? Because most women don’t even bother going out on St. Patrick’s Day. Instead, they bar their doors and watch a Colin Firth movie. Wise move, ladies.
5:30 P.M. — Wings, potato skins, onion rings. First boilermaker.
6:00 P.M. — Second boilermaker.
6:30 P.M. — Fucking A! Everything feels nice.
6:35 P.M. — Someone tries to put one of those stupid fucking plastic green bowler hats on you. Punch them in the face.
7:00 P.M. — Put $5 in jukebox. Select every song from the Pogues’ Rum Sodomy & the Lash. Make note to drink rum, commit sodomy, use lash later on.
7:05 P.M. — Why the fuck isn’t the juke playing your shit? Ask bartender. He gets mouthy. Punch him in the face. Get bounced.
8:30 P.M. — Arrive at next bar. Sit down at table just as the live band starts playing traditional Irish music at unreasonable volume. You know, the kind of music the immigrants in steerage played in the movie Titanic. Try to have conversation with friend. Fail.
10:05 P.M. — You’re extremely drunk now. Already? Yep. Oops. Maybe you should have paced yoursel… Whoo-hoo, Jäger bombs!
10:10 P.M. — Get into argument with friend. Cry for no real reason. Make up despite not knowing what you originally started arguing about. Hug a little longer than is comfortable.
11:00 P.M. — Everyone in the bar sings “Danny Boy.” No one knows the damn lyrics except for one really loud, old asshole.
12:00 A.M. — Leave for new bar.
12:05 A.M. — Throw up in alleyway. Sit down in alleyway. Tell your friend to hang on, it’s okay, you just need to sit down for a second.
12:10 A.M. — Kinda fall asleep. Okay, really fall asleep.
12:15 A.M. — Wake up. Realize you have vomit on your sleeve. And your arm up a homeless man’s rectum. Remove arm.
12:30 A.M. — Cough violently.
12:55 A.M. — Arrive at new bar that’s waaay too crowded. One of those bars where 17-year-olds are drinking Bud Light out of plastic yard glasses. Punch at least one person wearing a Larry Bird jersey and Red Sox hat.
1:00 A.M. — Karaoke! “In your heeead, in your heeead, zo-ombie! Zo-ombie! Zo-ombie-ay-ay-ay!”
3:00 A.M. — Still at bar. Eyes glazed over. Staring ahead at fixed point on wall. Still drinking, even though you aren’t sure why. Your friend left a long time ago. You’re all alone. Vomit into lap.
3:05 A.M. — Get sent home in cab. Open window so as not to smell own self.
3:20 A.M. — In bed. God, so comfy. Who invented beds? Whoever it was, that asshole’s a saint.