St. Patrick's Day Exposed

"When I said all Irishmen were homosexuals," I clarify, "I should admit my research to date has been inconclusive." A large Irishman who looks to be made entirely of marbled forearm considers this. "Okay," he decides.

"Excellent! Could I trouble you to remove your thumb from my eye socket?" I ask pleasantly.

"Not yet." He leads me by the thumb over to the bar for another pint, and I crabwalk alongside him, commenting on the handsomeness, virility and forgiving natures of the Irish people.

* *

A week earlier I had decided to land an assignment that would give me an excuse to drink on an expense account. St. Patrick's Day was conveniently near enough that I was able to pitch a story-this story-to the most highly respected and popular magazine on the stands. Unfortunately, right before my pitch meeting I inadvertently exposed myself to a secretary, later being informed that it didn't look very inadvertent to witnesses, and that in fact she was the magazine's publisher. Several phone calls attempting to re-spark interest in the story were met with attorney, forcing me to sell it to the makers of the functionally illiterate online offal you're now reading.

Luckily said offal's Editor-in-Chief, Monty Sarhan, was a close personal friend. "Smooth M," I told him, as this was my endearing nickname for him, "This St. Patrick's Day story will be so hard-hitting you'll shit boxing gloves."

"Mr. Sarhan," Smooth M said. "I've forgotten your name. Did we have an appointment, or"¦?" he added, looking worriedly at his calendar.

"I'll leave that to the philosophers," I laughed knowingly, helping myself to a handful of popcorn from a bowl on his desk and launching into my pitch. "St. Patrick's Day. What makes it tick? I'll slip unnoticed into Irish bars. I'll examine it up close and with an unforgiving eye, as if it was totally nude. I'll drink many fully-expensed drinks." I slipped this last one through in the hope it would go unnoticed.

"It will be the most spectacular journalism you've ever read, Smooth," I finished, picking popcorn kernels out of my teeth with my hand. "Make room on your motherfucking shelves for a Pulitzer." I pointed to the shelving on his walls to help make my point, trying not to be discouraged when there weren't any. "A man of your stature should really be able to afford more flat surfaces," I scolded, fishing another kernel out from my gumline.

"I honestly can't hear a word you're saying. You keep putting your hand in your mouth."

"Your complimentary popcorn," I explained. "A good choice, by the way. I try to eat popcorn at every meal."

"It wasn't complimentary,"

"Let's agree to disagree. This article-"

"You eat popcorn every meal?" he asked, like it was some kind of big deal.

"Popcorn," I explained, "is one of the most highly nutritious foods available in modern supermarkets." I'd adopted a tone that let him know I was talking to someone with the intellect of a child. "Its pH content is through the roof. I wouldn't expect you to understand this, but the alkaline levels are also excellent."

"I know what alkaline and pH mean. You're just making things up. Anyway, you can't just eat popcorn. How do you go to the bathroom? You must crap solid popcorn logs."

I nodded silently. That part was actually true. I tried to stay focused. "Smooth, this article-"

"Take your hand out of your mouth!"

* *

On the other 364 days the year, O'Malley's Pub is like any other bar in Brooklyn; a place to sit quietly in the dark, drink watery beer and possibly score some cocaine. But for pubs like O'Malley's, St. Patrick's Day is something akin to a Super Bowl. No expense has been spared tonight-whichever lights are still working have been turned on, every greasy surface has been festooned with cardboard shamrocks and the beer has been dyed a sickly neon green. Even the neighborhood cocaine salesman has caught the spirit, and sports a playful green felt top hat. It is perfect. For six hours now I have sat quietly in the dim light, drank green beer and observed St. Patrick's Day in action. I have also politely and repeatedly declined to buy drugs, on the grounds that I remembered to bring enough with me.

Like every pub on St. Patrick's Day, O'Malley's has elected to blast high-decibel Irish folk music instead of actual music that isn't painful to listen to. "Irish folk songs" is a bit of a misnomer anyway, since they evidently only invented one. I've been listening to "Whiskey in the Jar" in what seems like an endless, torturous loop. It's not unlike having your eardrums repeatedly penetrated by a fiddling leprechaun rapist.