Sunday, March 19, 2006

Tiz Me St. Patty's Day Tale



Hello lads and lassies. Pull up a chair and I'll tell ya my Patty's Day tale.

At the Irish Pub there was a retired police officer working the door wearing a tweed blazer and a tan kilt. I don't know about you, but personally, it's hard to respect an "authority figure" when you can see their pale hairy legs. His mustache and crew cut only added to the "festive" and unique look. When we crammed into the pub there was a great-looking brunette couple having an argument in the middle of the Tokyo-at-rush-hour-jam-packed bar.

He: "What the hell, are you doing? You just got a phone number from that other guy!"

She: "Well, fuck off and fuck to you. I'm not going to stand around here and let you call me a cunt!"

Then she pushed through the swarm of people and just disappeared. My co-drinker, enabler, Chase, was kind enough to get me the hell out of the swarm of people and we got seats at a table, to order some fine boiled Irish cuisine. We proceeded to order a few Irish Car Bombs from the waitress.

I should clarify that Chase and I are not affiliated with the I.R.A in any way nor, to my knowledge, is the waitress in question. For those of you who don't know, an Irish Car Bomb isn't just a deadly means of enacting vengeance on your foe with explosives, it's also a drink. I believe it is a pint of Guinness with a hefty shot of whiskey topped, that's off with Baileys Irish Cream. You drop the shot into the glass and pour the drink down your gullet. Then you feel a slight buzzing sensation and arrive in Drunkville well ahead of those pathetic beer-sipping wuss buckets. Then you look on at them and scoff. Fools.

Now, why anybody decided that an Irish Car Bob is a nice name for a drink I don't know. It does get you "blasted" ha ha (I get it). But it would be the equivalent of naming a drink a Palestinian Suicide Bomber. I'm not sure what ingredients would be in that drink, but I imagine it would be as delicious as the act is gruesome and violent.

Finally, the food arrived. Delightful, Gaelic Stew. By this point I'm so starving I could eat a.... hmmm... Well, I ate it anyway-- the cooked parts. It was a buncha hunks of beef and some carrots tossed into a pot, cooked in Guinness Stout, then slapped onto a plate with a great big, steamed, 95% raw potato on the side. It felt like food you'd get served on a pirate ship. Yes! I decided in a drunken epiphany. It was indeed "Pirish" food. That drunken discovery kicked off a series of bad impressions of Irish Pirates. The conversation between Chase and I went something like this:

"I'm a Pirish fiend feared on every puddle in Ireland"

"Yaaar, top o' the mornin' to ya, swine!"

"Pour another rounda Stouts, and batten down the hatches, ya scurvy dog!"

"Aye there, Plunder McBooty! Don't be going near me pot of gold!"

"Arrr! If yer be laying but one hook on the Capn's Lucky Charms, you'll find yourself in Davy Jones' Locker! Arrr!"

Now imagine this very loud "scream-versation" taking place next to some mild-mannered grad-school kid from Italy who has been in the country for not quite 3 weeks.

Strangely, Chase's friend and his bewildered Italian roommate left shortly afterwards. It must have been the food not agreeing with them.

While we were still at the table we played a game called "Take turns paying the waitress a compliment every single time she comes to our table." I told her how much I liked her earrings because the hoops were large enough for 3 chiuauas to jump through at the same time. She responded exactly how you'd imagine. We left a good tip.

Next I remember Chase and I found a pocket of space on the far side of the bar that was big enough to survive and where I didn't feel totally claustrophobic. Oh, and the copious alcohol may have helped my mood. Then I leaned up against the wall and finally relaxed despite the Gaelic Stew that was sloshing around my belly trying to incite a digestive mutiny. Thankfully the mutiny was suppressed.

I started to mentioned to Chase that, in my experience, Irish Bars tended to cause a good number of fights to break out whenever there-- but at that point I was interrupted by a fight breaking out next to us. There was a large sweaty Ukrainian-looking fellow who was very upset about something and was held back by Kilt Cop. The Ukrainian guy took a long time to be calmed. I think perhaps Kilt Cop finally soothed Ukraine Kong by whispering an Irish lullaby in his ear. Several pudgy girls ran for cover behind us. Clearly, I'll be able to protect them from the angry beast, no problem. Kong wisely kept his distance from me.

One the cuter girls stopped to talk with us, but all I could make out from her slurred words was that "Izz true, ssometimess, I can drink, um... too much, okay.... and I gess a biss... ahh-tuv-control."

No way, not her. I told her that was just highly implausible. I think that big word is what scared her away.

As I finished my last pint of Black Velvet and slapped it down on the bar, I saw the same abusive, brunette couple next to me at the bar. They were drunkenly pashing, and whispering sweet nothings into each others ears. Apparently, they had patched things up and all was forgiven. What a fairy tale evening. Isn't alcohol simply grand?

Happy Hangover, me Hearties!

7 comments:

Enny said...

My Irish accent always comes out sounding like a pirate... Top'o'th mornin' to yeh, m'hearties.

kranki said...

I guess everybody was too weirded out to post any comments on the hammer blog. I was listening to his audio blog and he called his Hummer the Ham Hum. That's pretty friggin' sweet.

Can I get a hellz yeah?

griffinpal said...

We had our own Irish experience with some oddly chunky, bony Shepherd's pie and an O'Malley's that tasted like puddle water.

And by the way, my great, great grandfather was IRA so if you ever really want to know about that whole car bomb thing... Although, come to think about it, I don't think they had cars back then. Maybe a horse darwn carriage bomb? Hmmm, not sure how that works....

Quirkie said...

I posted a comment on hammer's blog ages ago, but only to slap a particularly annoying heckler called "Reds under the bed" or something ridiculous. But I accidentally called Red-Whoever-He-Was a 'boy' and then I got all embarrased because I remembered the different meaning of 'boy' in America, and I was worried he might have been black, and you just have to ask Bert Newton about that one.

Anyway, I was a bit intrigued about a celebrity having a real dinkum blog, but then I stopped visiting because he really does sort of go on a bit, doesn't he?

Susanne said...

I can vouch for the angry/lovey-dovey couple. When you're that drunk things are either GREAT or AWFUL!

I liked the bit in this post about the earrings bit enough for dogs to jump through.

Susanne said...

*big

kranki said...

Hey, it's griffinpal! Welcome to my weird and sometimes crude blog. That's the way the Australians seem to like things. May The Baby Jesus bless their souls.

A BONE in your Shepherds pie? Um, Eeeewwww.

Your great great grandfather was IRA. That makes you just a little bit cooler.

Quirkie, Hammer ramble? Never.


Susanne: Thanks, I coined the term triple-chiuaua earrings. It also works well in LA because the hispanic girls tend to wear them real big hoops. Those suckers are big. They should at least pick up cable tv.