If you are reading this it means you survived St. Patrick's Day in Cleveland, Ohio. Congrats! You get the spirit award and the pleasure of years of kidney dialysis. As we know, Cleveland celebrates St. Patrick's Day like we just won the Super Bowl. In fact, the annual informal contest to consume everything fermented in a 300-mile radius might be the closest thing we'll ever come to a Super Bowl and we don't take it for granted. For one day out of the year, we all pretend we're Irish and we'll drink, drink again, and then drink some more. After we do all of that, we'll really start drinking.
There are only two things certain at this point: your Monday sucked and your bartender hated you.
Everyone loves St. Patrick's Day except for bartenders. Even though they made some serious coin last Sunday, it was their longest shift they worked all year and they had to deal with us: the belligerent-pretend-Irish-drunk people.
I could talk about my adventures from St. Paddy's Day in the article, and I can also talk about some of our fine area Irish bars, like Flanney's Pub on Prospect, PJ McIntyre's on Lorain, Claddagh in Legacy, The Harp on Detroit, Old Angle Tavern on W. 25, that alley where a guy in green socks and nothing else is passed out, or I can take you into the mind of every bartender that served you last Sunday.
This is what they were thinking:
That's right! I'm the bartender here, and it's St.-Patrick's Day and that is an automatic license to HATE YOU. So go ahead, assholes dressed up in green, tell me what you're having?
You want a top shelf Long Island? Did you really just ask me for that? First of all, I want to say, "You suck as a human being," and second, I want to know how dumb you are for ordering a top-shelf Long Island on St. Patrick's Day, you douche bag. It's going to cost you $5.00 more than a normal Long Island, and I automatically HATE YOU more for ordering it. So I'm just going to go ahead and make you a rotgut Long Island. See that plastic bottle of Kamchatka with the handles? That's all you, hero. Not only that, I'm going to charge you the top-shelf price, anyway. Go ahead and drink up, tool. You'll never know the difference anyway, dumb-ass.
All right, who was next in this crowded bar, shamrock-waving idiots?
You, the guy in the Boston Celtics shirt — way to commit, by the way — who is obviously trying to impress four girls by buying them all a round of shots. So what will it be, ass-knocker? Five Red-Headed Sluts? Another great St. Patty's Day drink! I'm just going to pour very little alcohol, fill it up with cranberry juice, and watch you pretend to get wasted. It's going to be great fun for me while I'm trapped behind this bar. What's even better is how those girls won't even be talking to you anymore in about twenty minutes, when you finally realize they're using you to buy them shots. So thanks a lot. That will be $26, and don't forget the tip, Captain Hand-Job!
NEXT!
Chief? You just called me "Chief"? Well, since you feel can call me "Chief," I'm going to go ahead and call you "Guy who didn't get served." Cool?
Ok, perfect! Who's next?
Oh, hey there, incredibly attractive female in the "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" shirt, who's obviously flirting with me as she's telling me her drink order, thinking I'll give her and her equally incredibly attractive friends the drinks for free. Whatta ya having? What's that? Green beer? How original! What's next? You need change so you can play a Dropkick Murphys on the TouchTunes? Good luck, you dumb St. Patrick's Day girl cliché.
Who was next? Ha ha, great! Here we go!
Three guys in skinny jeans that looked like they just robbed an H & M store? Too cool to dress up for the occasion? Let me guess...Red Bull vodka? How did I know? I'm Jeannie Fucking Dixon, and pussies could never handle a Jameson or Guinness. No problem though, tools; that will be $31.50, and you can't even have the rest of the Red Bull can either. Just give me a twenty, a ten and a five and walk out of my life forever. Don't say a fucking word to me, because I will jump over this bar and I will kill you with my bare hands, you got it? Just keep walkin' away and don't stop until you get hit by an RTA bus.
Ok, only another twelve hours until last call. Kill me, Lord. Kill me now.
