After an arduous Polar Vortex laden, January and a grey, abysmal February, we are now all up in March. Yes, March. The month that, thanks to St. Patrick’s Day, comes in like a drunken lion and out like a hungover lamb.
While most of you are shopping for green clothing and saving your pennies to get completely hamboned this weekend, there are a few of us who are preparing for St. Pat’s like the opening sequence in, Gangs of New York. We are your bartenders.
This weekend is Hell on Earth for us. We have never worked harder for your urine soaked dollars. As you drunkenly shout along to Dropkick Murphys and try your hardest to look like a rockstar in your generic,“Kiss me I’m Irish” shirt, these are the profiles in which we, bartenders, see you:
Light S.O’Feather- The light weight. You usually stay in control by only having a couple cocktails, don’t ya lightweight? Good for you, tiger. You’d like to think you can party hard on special occasions, eh? You can’t. We can spot you from a mile away. You either ask us to make you, “Something fun,” with cucumber vodka or you think you’re a hot shot by doing three whisky shots in twenty minutes. You’re going to be the life of the party for a hot minute, then you’re going to barf in the bathroom sink. Take it slow, O’Feather. You have yoga in the morning.
I’m Irish! O’Reeeeealllly?- Ok, we get it. You’re a quarter Irish, or half, or whole or who gives a fuck. Shut up! We don’t need to hear about it. If I had a nickle for everytime someone declared they were Irish and then glared at me like I owed them something, I would have enough nickels to buy a shillelagh for clubbin’. Anyway, does it matter? Everyone is Irish on Paddy’s. Wipe that smarmy look of your face and party with Patrick Gonzalez and Shaquille O’Neal, like a good lad.
The Suburban McMetra’s- Uh oh. Here comes Chad, Trixie, and Geoff. Run for your lives! Oh, wait. We can’t. We have to serve you. First, unpop your Abercrombie collar that’s underneath your green, bullshit shirt. You look like a chode basket. Second, stop asking for specials. IT’S ST. PATRICK’S DAY, BONER. Specials are, much to the owners delight, nonexistent on this day. Third, stop asking me if the brown line is the Metra. Next time you ask, I’ll send you on it and tell you to get off at Kimball. At least you’ll make it home with a handsome beach towel and a bag of oranges. Oh, and mind your manners because I’m bound to see your stankin’ ass again during Cubs season.
Marty McFlacid- You’re Bed Bath and Beyond wasted. Stop hitting on that freckled chick. You know your penis is useless today, McFlacid.
Erin Go Home- You are pretty hardcore. You party often and can hold your own on Paddy’s Day. You’ve been holding a steady drunk for about twelve hours, but it’s approaching hour thirteen and you can’t articulate a sentence. You keep repeating, “But Imma not drivin’ so iz no big deeeeal, ok?” Oh, you silly fool! Time to get a burrito and call it a night, yo. Don’t overstay your welcome, Erin.
Pee Mcgee- You piss anywhere but into a toilet. You either wiz all over our bathroom (Which some of us have to clean, dickhead) or you try to be discreet by staggering into an alley. I wish I could diaper all the Pee Mcgee’s of the world. It would make life so much simpler.
Tears O’Lannigan- Why so teary, deary? You’re the drunk girl who is exhausted and fussy because you’re not getting the drunken attention you deserve. Cue the waterworks! You will pout until someone asks you, "What’s wrong?" Or you’ll pick a fight in the street. This is super entertaining for bartenders, actually. Pull it together, Tears. You don’t want to send a butt-load of apology texts the next day, do you?
Hey, we bartenders know it’s been a long winter and this is your day to get fall down drunk! Good on ya! Even though it’s a pain in the ass, we make tons ‘o cash off of drunken shenanigans. Remember to be safe, have fun, don’t pick fights and tip your bartender! Happy St. Patrick's Day!