How to survive St. Patrick’s Day when everyone wants to be your friend

Sometimes, when I sit down to write about my adventures with the PrissyBitch, I have a hard time believing them myself. Is it possible for two people to consistently have so many hilarious adventures?

Yes, it is possible — you just need to be a naturally stunning WASP with a popped collar and some pearls.

The PrissyBitch left this note on my table this morning. To be explained later.

We started by getting dressed up in our best preppy gear and heading to a Whale game where, it turns out, we were good luck charms. We were fashionably late, as usual. And as we walked into the arena, beer in hand, the Whale scored their second goal of the game — putting the home team up 2-1. We found some empty seats — far from the sensitive ears of children whose parents might object to our profanity — and decided those seats were ours. It was a bad choice. Just across the aisle from us was a creepy dad who, despite being out with his kid, was staring at us for the better part of the first period.

By the end of the night, we would be so used to creepy dudes staring at us we barely knew what to do without a pair of leering eyes trained on us.

When we were done with our beer we headed out to get another one, and decided to find some better seats to plant ourselves in, away from the creepy dad. As we re-entered the arena, the Whale scored again. Some other stuff happened, but since there weren’t any good fights, and that’s all we really care about, I can’t tell you much about what happened. There was a random Springfield Falcons fan, wearing a pink jersey, who became very vocal toward the end of the game. This inspired some drunks with old school Whalers jerseys  to go “befriend him.” Three of them sat down with the pink jersey guy, and every time he yelled, “Let’s go Falcons!” they would yell “Falcons suck!” In the end the Whale beat Springfield, so that’s all that matters.

We headed to Vaughan’s for dinner, where I stuffed my face with Shepherd’s Pie, and then we headed down to the bar. This is where the night started to take a turn. We were standing at the bar chatting when some dude (let’s call him, The Banker) ordered what I thought was a blackened cranberry. Now, this makes no sense, but it’s what I thought I heard, and the Asian Persuasion is a big fan of blackened cider — which is a hard cider with a splash of black currant juice — but generally you can’t get it in the States. No one keeps black currant juice behind the bar. As it turned out, The Banker had ordered a vodka-cranberry — which should have been our sign not to talk to him — but a conversation was begun.

He said, “I’ll have it blackened, if you dare me.”

I didn’t really understand what was so dare-worthy about this but I dared him anyway. But our second clue that we shouldn’t bother talking to him came when he didn’t actually take my dare. Soon after that Prissy Bitch and I decided to head over to McKinnon’s. We hadn’t been there very long when we looked up and The Banker was there, along with a gaggle of girls he’d dragged with him from Vaughan’s. But he soon abandoned them to talk to us again. (Can you blame him?)

Now, The Banker was lame at best. He was alone and drunk off of vodka-cranberry juice on St. Patrick’s Day. But he looked at the Prissy Bitch and said, “Your friend is awesome, but she’s probably married.” I kept my ringless left hand in my pocket, and let PrissyBitch do what she does best — bold-faced lie to annoying strangers. “Yeah, she’s got three kids,” she said.

At which point The Banker answered, “You’re probably on SSI or Section 8 or something…” (Hawt, right?) He started to rant about working hard and having to give his money to people who don’t want to work. Now, I  tried to steer him away from this topic multiple times, suggesting that we were out to have fun, not argue about politics with strangers in a bar. But he just kept running his stupid Banker mouth, so finally I had to just let him have it. I started by schooling him on the difference between Communism and Socialism (because, like most idiots, he doesn’t understand the difference) and then I pointed out that my mom (and other hard-working people whose employers don’t provide health insurance) starts working at 5 a.m. and spends the entire day on her feet, while he’s sitting behind a desk on his fat ass, and so I didn’t want to hear about how hard he works. Then I told him we weren’t friends and he should piss off. But the problem with being us is that even when you flat-out tell complete assholes that you don’t want to talk to them, or threaten to punch them in the dick (that happened at a different party) the guys just keep coming back. (I think they like being bossed around by WASPy ice queens or something.) The Banker kept wandering away and then coming back, and at some point, looked at the Prissy Bitch again and said, “Your friend doesn’t know it yet but she’s going to marry me.”

“No she isn’t, you don’t have blue eyes,” she told him.

This confused him so he called me a racist. I answered the only way you can in a situation like this and said, “Spell ‘squirrel.'”

He said, “S-Q-U-I-R-E-L-L.”

Enough said.

I think that was about the time that he spilled his latest vodka-cranberry all over the place, leaving a trail of limes and girly-drink all the way back to the table of girls he’d convinced to hang out with him.

“What kind of man drinks vodka-cranberry all night,” I wondered, and then the Prissy Bitch and I threw back our beers and headed out the door and back to Vaughan’s, which turned out to be the best decision we’ve made since stopping in Los Banos.

When we got back to Vaughan’s we saw what we came to refer to as “Racial Harmony Riverdance.” The obligatory Irish band was playing some jig or other, while some girl (sans her curly wig) who clearly had parents who are way too into their Irish-heritage engaged in what appeared to be a dance-off with a middle-aged black guy who was almost as good at Riverdancing as every girl you’ve ever known named Erin/Shannon/Colleen/Eileen/Maureen/etc.

It brought a tear to my eye.

We headed over to the bar to get our next drinks, and were confronted by a “couple” (by which I mean strangers who probably didn’t know each others names) getting a little too close for comfort. This wasn’t the worst part, however. The girl was wearing an atrocious Christmas-colored get-up that included a skin-tight skirt, and she was — for some reason — reaching down the back of her skirt, in full view of anyone who was looking, and doing something to her ass, or underwear, or whatever. I almost vomited my Shepherd’s Pie all over her.

(Also, please note, that the band played “The Wild Rover” no less than three times over the course of the night, but I was the only person yelling “Show us your tits,” convinced that if I was loud enough, it would catch on.)

I think it’s time I introduce you, dear reader, to High-Five-Guy. Every time you passed this guy, he’d ask for a high-five, only he didn’t seem to remember doing this. So when we started preempting him and asking him for a high five, he got confused. “Why are you singling me out?” he asked. “Because you’ve been high-fiving us and everyone else in the bar all night,” we answered. “I have?” he asked.

Unlike The Banker, High-Five-Guy seemed pretty nice so we didn’t torture him too much longer, and it was a good thing because he quickly started lavishing us with the kinds of compliments that make you wonder, “Can this guy even see my face right now?” Which is not to say that he wasn’t right about how beautiful we are, I’m just not convinced he could accurately gauge anything at that moment. But it didn’t matter because he quickly grabbed some random girl that he may or may not have known to discuss how beautiful we are. He even asked us a question we’ve grown used to since our days in Lafittes in Exile: “How are you so beautiful?”

We gave him our standard answer: “We’re WASPs.”

And to her credit, the girl he dragged into this conversation was a good sport about it and went along with his drunken ramblings, agreeing that we are, in fact, naturally hot. (Thanks Meg,or was it May?) Then he told the PB that she has a nice mouth, and she almost peed her pants.

Around this time friends of the drunk “couple” showed up. Really they were just friends of the male-half of the drunk “couple” but whatever. This was probably very good for the guy (let’s call him The Makeout King) because things were getting ugly. Not only was he practically dry-humping this girl, he apparently had a problem with my generally expressionless face, and so he would  turn around every once in a while to stare angrily at me while I watched the band. The Makeout King was quickly becoming the most likely candidate to have a beer thrown in his face, but then his friend saw his confrontational, slightly insane staring and stepped in.

Top ‘o the mornin’ from the PrissyBitch and Irish Alfredo Sauce.

That’s when we met the guy we’ll call Alfredo (because, as his friend [let’s call the friend The Hot One, for obvious reasons] put it, “You are a thick creamy sauce my brother”). Alfredo managed to redirect the attention of the Makeout King, and we made friends in the meantime.  As it turned out, these guys were all from my hometown but were a few years younger, so Alfredo and I started doing the “Do you know this person” dance.  He also bought a giant blow-up Jameson bottle, which garnered him some interest from The PrissyBitch, until he hit someone with it and the bartenders took it away.

When I mocked Alfredo’s Blackberry, he pulled out an iPhone as well. I said, “Oh it’s a work phone, that makes sense.” He said, “Oh no, I don’t work.”

“Then why do you have two phones?” I asked.

“I don’t want to say. You’ll judge me.”

This is when I realized our new friend — who had gone to a boarding school — was also a new connect should we ever find ourselves in need of party goods. Which explained why his giant diamond earrings were real and his friends’ weren’t. (And we learned a new word.)

For most of this time The Hot One — who was attractive in a slightly-ghetto/Mark Wahlberg kind of way — was busy sexting someone on his phone. But when he eventually came over I managed to suck him in with hometown talk, and (strangely) digital marketing. But eventually he asked one very important question: “What’s with the grown-up outfits?”

You see, Prissy Bitch and I go out of our way not to look like other people in bars. When other girls are putting on their sluttiest green “Kiss Me I’m Irish” t-shirts, we’re putting on button downs and sweaters. You get just as much, if not more, attention, only instead of being mouth-raped by strangers, you get proposed to by loathsome bankers. We explained all of this to The Hot One, and how we had honed this skill in dive bars across the country.

Because I don’t remember when this next thing happened, I’m just gonna throw it in here: We were standing there chatting with our new friends when a man I had been referring to as The Black Leprechaun approached us and — I kid you not — asked to have his picture taken with us. He was a short, squat little black guy, dressed in head-to-toe green, including a silly hat and glasses. I can only assume he is behind this viral sensation:


As of right now, that is the most hilarious thing that has ever happened to me. I hope that, somewhere, that picture is on its way to becoming a viral sensation of its own.

As the night drew to an end High-Five-Guy made a reappearance, which was surprising because he’d been hammered for five hours, and out of money for almost as long (PB discovered this when she tried to talk him into buying her a drink). Only now, he was on the ground and having trouble getting back up. Meg (or May?) was trying to help him back up but it wasn’t going so well, so we pitched in and helped High-Five-Guy back to his feet, though we were worried about how he was getting home (apparently he rode his bike). So if you saw a really well-dressed drunk guy on a bike last night, he probably tried to high-five you.

The PrissyBitch and I were in a rare moment of quiet conversation when some boring, middle-aged dude appeared, leaned on the bar and opened with this charming line: “My friend with the beard is completely enamored with you.”

To which the PB replied, “Well then your friend can buy us a drink.”

Now that’s a pretty creepy line, and the friend hid so we couldn’t even tell what kind of weirdo this guy was trying to pimp, and by this time we were getting downright bored by all the attention. We’d made our friends, and we were happy talking to them, and anyone who came in between us and them was just an annoyance. So we did a good job of ignoring this guy, and trying to get Alfredo to muscle him out of the picture. Eventually he took the hint, politely excused himself, and headed back to his bearded friend (but don’t forget about them just yet).

And then… The Banker was back. He was still drinking vodka-cranberry and apologizing for being an a-hole, while simultaneously continuing to be an a-hole. This time, though, the PrissyBitch took advantage of him and got him to buy her a glass of Woodford Reserve. (Smart move, PrissyBitch. Smart move.) And then, just like that, he left again… and we were left with expensive Bourbon.

Our friends started to leave then, and the PrissyBitch quickly downed her bourbon. We weren’t relishing being left alone in this bar with no creamy sauce to protect us, so we left too, but as we were headed to the door, some strange man reached out and yelled, “This is the guy with the beard that loves you!”

I honestly have no idea how one is supposed to react to something like that, but I just smiled and nodded — too tired of dealing with strange men to bother being nice to someone I’m sure was a completely decent human being.

We headed to the car (don’t worry, I’d stopped drinking for several hours) and rocked out with our cocks out to “Thriftshop” while we headed back toward my house. This was when the Prissy Bitch suggested we go to the truly very sketchy dive bar near my house. It’s a shitty place to be at 7 p.m. on a Tuesday, but at midnight on a Sunday…well… it’s kind of asking for trouble. So of course we stopped there.

As it turns out, they have the most disturbingly large collection of Smirnoff I’ve ever seen, as well as boasting the prize for the most lecherous skeevy old dude of the night. There was a female bartender and a mother daughter duo in there along with a handful of gross dudes. The bar is kind of u-shaped so you’re often facing the people across from you and an obese guy kept trying to talk to us.  We went to put some money in the jukebox (because we were sick of the Rihanna playing on a loop) and when we returned to the bar the old fat guy had taken our seats. After a couple of minutes dodging conversation with him, we decided to play pool. I lost the first game, which is par for the course at this point, but I actually managed to win the second game. Somewhere in there, as the obese man was admiring the PissyBitch’s stick-handling skills he blurted out to no one in particular, “Tough and sexy!”

Then it was last-call, the bartender was kicking us out, and we were finally forced to go home — roughly 11 hours after our shenanigans had begun.