“God invented Whisky to keep the Irish from ruling the world!” said a famous Irishman.
I've long wanted to join the St Patty's Day party in the Highlands. This year, I was excited when friends invited me to join them on Sunday for Guinness gulping and game gawking.
As often happens, life intervened in the form of unexpected snow and a daughter reluctant to return to school, so that put paid to that.
I was hoping some of you who did honor the Irish will share your stories with those of us who could not. Doesn't have to be a story from this year. I would love to hear what I missed.
As I couldn't be there and feel left out I've made a story up. It was inspired by Jacob and his green bowler. Cheers!
Standing on the patio at Molly Malone's, sporting new green dungarees and sipping my fifth or sixth Guinness, I was trying to ignore my urge to piss all the while pretending to listen, over the roar of the crowd, by staring and nodding at whoever's mouth was moving.
We were packed elbows to assholes as the restaurant and patio were crammed to capacity. I was hoping I could down this one last pint before forcing a path through the thick crush to the overused and inadequate facilities inside.
I thought I could when suddenly, I felt a hot wetness gushing down the inside of my left leg into my shoe! OMG I know I didn't just piss myself. With a huge effort, I controlled my urge to glance down and thought about pretending to dump my glass of beer on my pants!
I kept my eyes level hoping I could just back into the crowd and perhaps slip off to the bathroom or even back to the car if the situation was unrecoverable. To my dismay, it was too late for that.
A woman next to me let out a shriek, eyes wide, covering up her mouth with the side of her beer glass. This was necessary as her other hand was pointing down at my soaked pants. I felt my face flush and knew my ears were red as pickled beets.
My friends were all now looking down at my pants and I could clearly see they were witnessing an event of such epic hilarity as to comprise their best St Patty's story ever while I was equally sure I'd forever dread the memory of this retched event and would probably need to move or possibly fake my death.
I was about to excuse myself to run away and forget I ever knew any of these people when a loud, fake, Irish voice directly behind me exclaimed disgustedly, “Amos, you filthy beast! Just look what you've done.” followed by group laughter.
I spun around then spilling a fair amount of black beer onto the patio, which had magically cleared around me allowing everyone to see my ignominious condition, to tell the bastard my name wasn't Amos. I was prepared to empty the rest of my glass at my detractor but stopped when I saw he was dressed in a checked jacket, green bowler, and peering through over-sized glasses shaped like beer mugs. He wasn't even looking at me but down at the ground.
Amos, a ludicrously fat, chocolate lab, who obviously hadn't missed any meals during his considerable years, was sitting on his haunches looking up at me with a yellowed grin. His coat was more gray than brown, like chocolate chip cookie dough. Amos yawned hugely then whined a credible apology nodding all the while as if pretending to listen to me over the roar of the crowd.
Like confronting a drunken Irishman too smashed to know he's caused offense and too cheerful to notice my wrath , I did the only thing I could. I patted him on the head and said, “You're a good boy aren't you Amos?”
Amos tilted his head up against my hand eyes closed accepting my complements graciously. He too must have had the urge to piss and understandably may have been confused by my green jeans.
Oh well, pissed on less than pissed off is a good day I always say. Obviously, I've the luck of the Irish!