It's Getting Awfully Crowded in My Head

"Oh, no," I said, "Not this year."

"We're not going to go through this again, you drunk Irish bastard. No parades. No Dropkick Murphys. No angrily swinging empty bottles of Jameson about our heads.* No 30 packs of Genesee Cream Ale. No green, even, for Christ's sake.

"No unplugging of the toaster oven and then wildly twirling it by its cord until we smash it against a rock. No wrestling and breaking a cabinet door with our head. No karate kicking a hole in the wall. No mosh pits. And absolutely no starting conversations about Wittgenstein and ending them with fist fights!**

"No waking up in the morning in a pool of our own drool/vomit/blood. No waking up in strangers' closets. No wandering through the neighborhood in search of keys, lighter, cigarettes, wallet, hat, passport, left shoe, right sock and/or pants. No sudden flashes of horror or regret when remembering the previous night's uncomfortable talk with stranger about his sexual orientation/ awkward sexual encounter/ anti-Israeli rant/ pitcher of margaritas at 5 a.m. No trying to explain the hole in the roof to the Residency Director.

"Not this year! This year we're turning over a new leaf! We've actually done a pretty good job at observing Lent; we've only drank thrice since then! Let's keep it up! This St. Patrick's Day has got to be different!"***

"All excellent points, Joel." I replied, "But did you see what the Pope said yesterday?"****

"That Kraut bastard!" I exclaimed, "To Hell with Lent! To the pub!"

(END SCENE)

* We were angry because the bottle was empty.
** verb, "to Joel"
*** Leave it to the Irish to have a drinking holiday in the middle of fasting season.
**** Here's an update on the international response.