A Girl, Her Whisky, and an Irish Holiday

By Ren

I know; Saint Patrick’s Day was a few weeks ago. It’s way to late to publish an article about it or any shenanigans that took place. I’m lazy. It’s time to move onto another topic. Fucker, I just sobered up enough NOW to write about it!
Don’t ask.

So, for you neigh sayers, piss off. I’ll write about what I want, when I want! I’ll write an article about mother fucking Christmas of 2000 if I want. You’re going to sit there and like it.A real Irish chick/dude has to prepare for the drunken joy that is Saint Patrick’s Day. Part of this prep was to take Wednesday through Friday off work. Look, I know my genes. In the past I’ve tried to contain Irish alcoholic’s day to the Wednesday it fell on. But, after considerable research and tests (see: binge drinking), I came to the conclusion that Saint Patrick‘s Day is more of a multi-day holiday like Hanukkah or Wrestlemania.

Our tree is more kick ass, though.
We’ve got the menorah covered, too.

So, as an Irish girl whose father is right off the potato boat, I’ve learned just to accept the truth. I’m going to get completely asstarded drunk, so I might as well take the work days off and get paid for it. Shit, it worked for Ted Kennedy (too soon?). I said “goodbye” to my co-workers, not knowing if I would ever see them again. By this time, tomorrow, I may be in another RCMP holding cell. At the very least, I knew I was going to end up passed out on a pool table.

Deceptively comfortable.

Any good alcoholic gets her recovery kit ready for the aftermath. Surely, you have one. No? Amateur. Alright, I’ll share my ancient Gaelic secret for a proper recovery kit. Warning: there can be NO substitutions.

  • 10 bottles of Gatorade
  • 1 Pair ear plugs
  • 1 box of Saltines
  • 20 pre-penned letters of apology
  • 3 extra dark sunglasses (to be worn at the same time)
  • Passport
  • 2 bottles of Kilbeggan Irish whisky
  • 1 bottle of Excedrin Migraine (to be taken with the whisky- 2 pills and 3 shots every 2 hours)
  • 1 twenty gallon bucket from Home Depot
  • 1 Box of adult diapers
  • Rosary
  • 1 Whisky Makes Me Frisky tee shirt

Having made sure my recovery kit was packed and stowed in a safe location (behind the toilet in the second floor bathroom) I was ready. Ready for what? Damn if I know. I still don’t really know what the fuck happened for those three days. Whatever happened, it was enough to make me swear off drinking Sunday. That’s saying a lot for someone who comes from a nation where bar brawls and domestic abuse are the national past times.

Above: Our nation’s Olympics.

I had to play a little bit of Nancy Drewto piece together whatever the fuck happened from Saint Paddy’s day until when I woke up under my bed with ice skates on my feet Saturday. My recovery kit was emptied out, including the box of adult diapers. That was odd, considering I wasn’t wearing any this time and they were no where to be seen in my room. I argued with gravity for about twenty minutes. Gravity can eat shit. It’s always trying to keep the Irish down. Asshole physics.When I learned to walk again, I peeked out the window to see if there were patrol cars out front. Nope, not this time. There were no signs of a riot. There wasn’t even one person passed out on the lawn. I guess the biggest surprise was that I wasn’t passed out on the lawn. Again.

You can usually see my feet sticking out the bush, here.

I cracked the door and peered into the hallway. No wreckage there either. All the same, I wanted to avoid human contact until I found out if I owed money or had a bench warrant waiting for me. Fuck!Stairs! The one kink in my otherwise perfect plan. I would have held the railing with both hands if I wasn’t holding a half filled bottle of whisky in one of them. So, being the innovative little girl I am, I just slid down the steps on my ass. Here’s a bit of advice: don’t slide down the steps when you have a hangover/still drunk. Halfway down I ended up turned around and crashed on the landing head first.

You win, again, staircase!

I laid there waiting for someone to rush over and help… or yell at me. Whatever. One of the dogs meandered over and sniffed my face. He was judging me. I know it. Fucking dogs. Ooooooooooo! They have paw-eye coordination and can walk in a straight line! Big deal. Show offs. I could walk just fine if I had four legs too. As it stands, crawling on all fours isn’t quite the same thing. That’s how rumors get started.

Hot rumors…

As the dog walked away I say where one of my adult diapers went. I guess I thought it was a good idea at some point to put one on the dog. HA! I’m hilarious! I could safely assume that four diapers were accounted for; two dogs and two cats in the house. I’d never stop with diapering just one animal. That would be half assed.

Just like this, except the dogs in our house are 90 pound Alaskan Malamutes. How the hell did I manage to do that?

I decided to concentrate and do my damnedest to piece together the jumbled jigsaw puzzle that was the last 72 hours. Based on the evidence and the strange fact that I had bird seed in my pocket, I came up with this cobbled together time line.

Wednesday, March 17- Noon
Pre-programmed local area blood banks and hospitals into my GPS. Ate a nutritious Saint Patrick’s day lunch of black bread and Guinness. Either that or a severely moldy slice of bread I found behind the toaster… and Guinness.

Wednesday, March 17- 5 PM
Polished off a case of Smithwhick’s and bummed a ride to the pub. Now, from what I can put together, I either had a friend pick me up or I hitched a ride with a clown. I did find a rubber nose down my pants at one point.

Seems trustworthy enough.

Wednesday, March 17- 11 PM
Sang some Irish karaoke, even though the bar didn’t have a karaoke machine and I was, apparently, singing into an empty toilet paper tube.

May explain the shitty sound check.

Thursday, March 18- 10 AM
Have the feeling I was in Yakima for some odd reason. I don’t have much to base this on other than the appearance of a brand new “I Heart Yakima” t-shirt that I was suddenly wearing.

I really fucking don’t. God, how I fucking hate Yakima.

Thursday, March 18- 1 PM
Something to do with a zoo…

Thursday, March 18- 4 PM
Had a quickie wedding with the bottle of whisky I was drinking.

Thursday, March 18- 4:15 PM
Divorced said bottle of whisky due to irreconcilable differences.

Son-of-a-bitch ran out on me. Literally.

Thursday, March 18- 8 PM

Signed up for the Peace Corps

Thursday, March 18- 9:23 PM

Realized I didn’t sign up for the Peace Corps.  It was a waiver for a wet t-shirt competition.

Thursday, March 18- 11 PM

Inexplicably wearing a soaking wet “I Heart Yakima” t-shirt.

Friday, March 19

A complete fucking blank.

OK, so truthfully, I really don’t have a shit-faced leprechaun’s clue as to what really happened. Oh, I’ve heard rumors. I’m happy to accept that this is one of those Unsolved Mysteries type deal. Well, without the convenience of Robert Stacknarrating.

“Join me in solving the mystery of Ren’s missing bra.”

Posted on April 7, 2010, in Alcohol, Holidays, Ren and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 3 Comments.

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  1. Pingback: The Secret Manly Life of a Fashion Designer « The Fuse Was Too Cold

  2. Pingback: 2010: The Year of the Ren « The Fuse Was Too Cold

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