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Let“s get hurt
St. Patrickâ??s Day brings out the worst in all of us
By Rory Sazama
The bars burst at the seams with the falling-down drunks belting out song after song of the OClancey Brothers as four-leaf clovers and potato whiskey rein down from a lacerated Irish sky once a year during the month of March.
Nobody handles 18 to 27 beers over the course of five hours worse than the casual binge drinker who pays homage to the motherland every St. Patricks Day.
The amateur drunks of Milwaukee collectively possess a rare superpower that allows them to turn this festive holiday into a sloppy and somewhat tragic celebration ripe with alcohol-induced chaos lacquered in vomit green anarchy.
Although liquor mismanagement is all the rage during ones college tenure, it seems to take on a grossly morbid level of sadness when conducted by late 30-something businessmen caught in the act of reveling in their keg stand days of yore during each St. Patricks Day.
The slurred-spoken men, clad in green DKNY ties, down their mutant green ale with the reckless tenacity of a malnourished grizzly bear who is giving serious consideration to eating her young.
The bars burst at the seams with the falling-down drunks belting out song after song of the OClancey Brothers as four-leaf clovers and potato whiskey rein down from a lacerated Irish sky once a year during the month of March. Perhaps this is the best we can offer as homage to a culture of people that helped to define and lay the building blocks of our country.
We will drink beer and eat corned beef hash until we vomit green blood in hopes of showing our appreciation and respect for all things of the Irish persuasion.
We will race to globalize chain retail outlet centers, to spend our hard-earned cash on cardboard leprechauns and sparkly four-leaf clovers that hang in our windows to show our Irish pride. We will plaster our SUVs with kiss me, Im a slogan lover stickers to outwardly display a heritage that many people take for granted.
Yet for many, once the agonizing hangovers subside, the green will be shed from our skin like snakes engulfed in the midst of molting season and we will continue our lives as bastard American sons and daughters of far away European, Asian, Middle Eastern, Latin American and African soil.
Unfortunately, one day out of the year is not enough time to celebrate ones heritage, regardless of ancestral background. One week is not enough. Ones history is a lifelong reflection that involves so much more than a stupid parade down Anytown, U.S.A.s main street and the consumption of absurd amounts of alcohol.
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