I See Drunk People

So yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day--or as I prefer to call it: “rookie night”. Don’t get me wrong. I love the Irish culture. There’s something beautiful about an entire people dedicated to drinking themselves silly and getting into a fist fight with their own family members. I’ve spent my fair share of time in Irish pubs; it’s my preference for 364 days of the year. But on rookie night, I’d rather French-kiss the urine encrusted Blarney Stone than spend my time watching 25 year old girls vomiting green beer into their own shoe.

As Americans we have, for some reason, really embraced the Irish culture. But I just don’t see how. I mean, I like strong beer and the sound of bagpipes in the morning… but I get the impression that most of America doesn’t. So what gives? I mean, what has this wonderful culture given us that the typical, American St. Patrick’s Day reveler appreciates? I mean, I don’t see Guinness out-selling Miller Light any time soon, and I certainly don’t expect men to take to the streets en masse wearing kilts. I don’t expect to see hip-hop replaced by Celtic classics. So really, this is just an excuse to behave like a stupid, pathetic drunk--which is too bad since these rookies don’t have the necessary drinking skills to pull it off with anything approximating a true Irishmen’s skill.

Going to an Irish pub on St. Patrick’s Day is as fun as a barrel full of monkeys. You must realize however, that a bunch of angry, drunk monkeys crammed into a barrel will start flinging their own feces at you and clawing each other’s eyes out.