How ya like me na?
-or-
Damn it feels good to be a gangster.
-or-
Ta Da!
-or-
About fucking time.
However you want to say it, This. Is. It. The grain of sand that started in the oyster of my brain over a year ago is now...just a bigger piece of shitty sand; the oyster died and this is all that's left. Another piece of sand on Blog Beach. My small piece of ocean front property. But man, what a view.
It became difficult for me to write about my life; not because it was emotionally tough, or I couldn't expose myself anymore, or I got tired of sharing everything. Damn it, Eat, Drink, Sleep, Rinse, Repeat can only be expressed in so many ways and I just fucking ran out of metaphors and stupid pop references to make things interesting. So here we go- I've got a brand new bag, full of all my old, vulgar tricks.
Better Holiday- Saint Patrick's Day or Halloween?
I fucking love Halloween. It's spooky. It's a close to my birthday so I can party two, sometimes three weekends in a row. I can dress up like a woman without too many people giving me the stink eye. It's the drinking, the parties that people have, the fact that every and any body worth even a little bit is in for It. Who the fuck, other than Dr. Loomis, doesn't like Halloween?
But St. Pat's has that going for it too. Name me one person who doesn't profess to be Irish on March Seventeenth? Go ahead. Tell me. Oh wait, you can't. Because at the end of the rainbow is piece of land Thirty Two Thousand square feet big that magically gave birth to a population of Six billion strong.
So you brought The Ruckus- now what are you going to feed them? Jello Brain Mold? Candy? Bobbing for apples? That's...not going to cut it. That's like trying to serve Oktoberfest with a bunch of Fun-Dip. And somebody just vomited in the apple barrel. St. Paddy's offers up a whole cow, corned and deli-sliced, and loaves of soda bread to the Drinking Gods. This pleases them. This makes the drought go away, the sun shine, the flowers blossom. This makes life good. And where the booze flows like a busted fire hydrant on Halloween, St. Paddy will see you bet and raise you with Day Drinking. Day Drinking, the rare event when it's okay to be wasted before McDonald's serves lunch. You can puke in your plate of eggs, and nobody thinks bad of you, except that you wasted perfectly good eggs. And beer. And that you can't hold your liquor, you fucking toddler.
And look! You're still in costume! Except that it was easier to find! Instead of trying to pick between the transvestite French maid and the giant chicken with Fortys for hands, you can just wear Green. Anything. Green. Shirt? Yes. Eyes? Lucky. Jockstrap? It finally pays off. It's like getting dressed for any other day, except that you have to match colors.
But St Patty's has parades...and that's a, yeah, that's a toss up. Like Hey, Sweet! There's something going on! I get that. I can even appreciate it. Drunks need spectacle. But it still feels a bit gimmicky, like its trying too hard to be festive. It's like St. Pat's is at Last Call, not wearing any pants, trying to go home with somebody. Nobody wants to acknowledge that their friend is making an ass of themselves.
And that's the thing- St. Pat's doesn't take much effort, besides getting the day off and trying to muscle down your fifth corned beef sammich of the day (although, you know you can eat six, no problem). To pull it off, Halloween takes planning. Foresight. A bit of ingenuity and savvy, and a willingness to look like a fool. St. Pat's takes a bit of green and semi-healthy liver. Halloween is the more satisfying hangover, whereas on March Eighteenth, I just wish I drank more water the night before.
But as much as I admire and respect people taking that extra step, the initiative to do more...I'm a lazy muthafucker. Please believe. That's why I've been a nun, twice, for Halloween. I like to get as much Rock for as little Roll as possible, and that puts St. Patty's right in my fucking wheel-house. It's like my calendar grooved a breaking ball to me on Opening Day, and I just have to park it in the bleachers. Game over. Meet me at home plate.
Or the pub. Who's got my car bomb?
Winner: St. Patrick's Day
