Is this the greatest weekend of the year? This is the greatest weekend of the year. You could make a hard case for it based on the NCAA tournament alone; but throw in the most aggressive drinking holiday of the year and you’ve got the kind of weekend you’d tell your grand-kids about, (minus the part about my intense pursuit of anything with a v*gina). I love St. Patrick’s Day because it’s unique in one aspect; the drinking is not a tangential benefit of the holiday. It is the holiday. Every year a nation decides to embrace the worst stereotype of an entire culture (namely that the Irish are miserable alcoholics) and revels in it - nobody even knows who St. Patrick is or why the day is named after him (FYI St. Patrick played a flute and mice and rats followed him into Ireland to chase away the elephants) but we’ll be happy to get wasted, because why not? NCAA Tournament. Saturday. St. Patrick’s Day. Great weather. I should have a sit down talk with my p*nis the day before and explain to it that there’s no way it’s going to be functioning properly after 3 p.m., and that, “No, it’s not you. It’s me.”
So how will I spend the day? Well, luckily, I slipped and hit my head just as I was pondering that question, and when I came to, I was living... in the future. Here’s what happened (what will happen? whoa.):
6:00 AM: My alarm goes off and my present self is extremely angry with my last-night-self for thinking it was an awesome idea to wake up extra early and cook an Irish breakfast. My mouth tastes like the Sudan. My head isn’t pounding, it’s more like one sustained pound. I have crippling anxiety. I can’t bring myself to look at the receipts in my pocket, I’ll deal with that tomorrow. God, I’m convinced, hates me. In exchange, I renounce my belief in Him and instead put all my faith in three Excedrin.
7:30 AM: Things are getting better. I think I puked up the Excedrin, but the shuffling-around-the-kitchen-island-while-moaning trick seems to be working. I start to wonder if I’ve actually made myself dumber in the years since I started drinking, and then I wonder if it even matters. Then I think about if clouds were made of cotton candy, would it rain sugar?
8:30 AM: Who invented showers? Isaac Newton? This is the best thing that’s happened to me today. The anxiety still lingers, but I actually feel like an able bodied human now. I think I will make that St. Patty’s kick-off party that starts in a half hour. And after that, I think I will roll over my 401K.
10:00 AM: About a dozen of us soldiers have been doing Car-Bombs for about an hour. One of my buddy’s girlfriends is visibly intoxicated and is calling everyone a pussy. I wonder what it’s like when she has sex, like if they’re loud or if she says weird shit (you should know that If I have ever met you, I have wondered this exact thing about you--guy or girl--and, as a matter of fact, I have probably not even listened to anything you’ve said; I just deduced whether it was happy or sad, made the appropriate face, and pondered your flexibility). Another Car-Bomb? Yes please.
11:30 AM: My buddy’s girlfriend passed out. He looks relieved. The party is pretty full now, about 40 people crammed in. All the whiskey and Bailey’s has chased away my headache, but I know he’ll come back tomorrow with an army. I choose to ignore that fact.
1:00 PM: The crew and I hit the line at the bar. Everyone is there, the good looking guy who crushes it, the mediocre dude who I hang with in between talking to chicks, the fat guy who wore his “no fat chicks” t-shirt, the guy who stayed in last night (moisturizing his vagina), and the Dude who has convinced himself that he loves his Girlfriend in spite of the fact that she’s an annoying troll who’s sole purpose in life seems to be making him miserable (She stayed in since she “hates day drinking”. He’s positively glowing. Look out, this guy's ready to rage).
1:30 PM: We are close to the front of the line. Conversations have been struck up with various ladies. The seeds have been planted. I stay weary of EVERYONE especially since St Patty’s Day is the easiest day for a chick to look hot - boobs out, zip down sweatshirt, and the color green create a Trojan Horse (I swear the combo cuts 100 pounds).
2:00 PM: We are in. I’m back on speaking terms with God thanks to the feeling I now have below my waist (I just pooped). I briefly consider the plight of other, less fortunate people, and, hell, nations. I’ll feel a twinge of existential guilt. Then I puke (in the bathroom, thank God).
2:05 PM - 6:00 PM: We are crushing this bar. Even Fat Guy in the “No Fat Chicks” T-Shirt is talking to chicks (about the return of the Shamrock Shake). The games are on and I’ve argued why my bracket is a lock, despite the fact that, including highlights on ESPN, I’ve watched about 4 total games worth of NCAA basketball (About halfway through the season I was under the impression that every game this season had been played on an aircraft carrier) Shots have been taken. People are frenching. All is right.
6:30 PM: Like conquering Vikings, we feast! Pizza has never tasted so good. I can feel it sponging up the Irish Whiskey. Today this feels good. Tomorrow, it will feel like a Poo Train made of liquid fire has runaway through my rectum.
7:30 PM: We go back to the apartment where we started. Pregame number two. The places looks like an Irish guy vomited everywhere (since this is actually what happened). We sit and watch the highlights from the day as we discuss who in the room is the most gay. We decide that Kentucky will win it all and that everyone is probably a little bit gay.
9:00 PM: We’ve been listening to “Call Me Maybe” on repeat for an hour. We decide that Justin, Selena, Ashley, and the gang seem to really enjoy one each other’s company and none of them will have a menacing drug problem (JK!) or terminate several pregnancies (double JK!). The losers who are “taking naps” have tapped out. There’s four of us left and we head to the bars knowing that this will be the last moment we remember each others company.
1030(ish)PM: I’ve struck up a conversation at the bar. I’m insulted by the fact that I’m getting aggressively hit on by one of the uglier bar patrons. And yet, she will manage to prove her point later in the night as I agree to take her out to Cracker Barrel after a conversation about our deep love of biscuits, Orange Cream soda, and giant checkers. Then I sort of eat her out in the bathroom. Sort of.
11:00PM????: I pee, and I put my hand up against the wall and put my head down like a man defeated. I can barely stand. The urine pours out of me, replaced with the feeling that the world is starting to wobble on its axis. About half of the time I’m actually peeing in in the urinal.
And the weight of it all - the drinks, the friends, the sunshine, the fact that a man invented a game of throwing a round ball into an apple basket has turned into this majesty of sport - has moved me. It’s moved me to smile, moved me to hug, moved me to take off my shirt and get kicked out of the bar. I can’t believe I live in this great nation, and all I can do is slump against the wall in the alley, try and light a cigarette that I found on the ground by rubbing my hands together really fast, and chant “U.S.A.” loudly to myself, because you know what? I’m a patriot, damn it and I just won’t apologize for that.
12:00 AM, or maybe later I don’t know: I slip again and hit my head. When I come to, I’m back in the present tense - the Thursday before St. Patty’s. Oh my god it was all a dream. Or was it? For clutched in my left hand is a note, “Mr. Train, we had an amazing time with you. Call Me Maybe,” and I read this next part very slowly, as a chill runs down my spine: “Sincerely, Justin, Selena, Ashley and the gang.”
Jared Freid is a New York City-based comedian. You can follow him on Twitter @jtrain56 for videos, column updates, insight, and plenty of pen*s jokes.