St. Patrick's Day With Real Irish People: A Cautionary Tale

One of the nice things about writing for Cracked is the occasional contact with celebrities. The cease and desist letter from David Bowie's lawyers calling my constant references to him "borderline creepy" was certainly a thrill, but last week, something even better happened. I got a call from Blindboyboatclub of the Irish band Rubberbandits informing me that they were coming to New York for a gig. Loyal Cracked readers will remember that the Bandits secured the top spot in one of my previous columns about misunderstood satirists for their "Horse Outside" video. Subsequently, Blindboy and I struck up a friendship even though, unlike the Bandits, I don't ride horses, appear on television or huff bags of glue."We're playing New York," he said. Or at least I assumed that's what he said. The Limerick accent was still difficult for me to comprehend, as my familiarity with Irish dialects was based mostly on leprechauns of the Warwick Davis and Lucky Charms variety.

THE PREPARATION

I set down the phone and prepared to do all the things I needed to get ready for a night of drunken hijinks. Specifically, I asked my wife's permission."Rubberbandits," she said. "Aren't those the hooligans who got you so drunk nine months ago that you lost your phone and spent the whole next day puking?" "No. I just got drunk

near them. To tell you the truth, I was already lit with those ne'er-do-wells BriTANick by the time I even met the Bandits. Really. Much like incurable disease and poverty, it's all BriTANick's fault."

BriTANick moments before they torture your kitten.

Maybe due to my crafty lie (after all, BriTANick is responsible only for disease) or because she was glad to get me out of the house, my wife gave me the green light for a boy's night out and even set up a nice bed of pillows and comforters on the couch so I wouldn't wake her with 3 a.m. drunkenness.

THE JOURNEY

Having cleared my night, I next had to pick my wardrobe. I struggled to find fashion that was capable of both accenting my international website columnist credentials and masking my "blogger's gut." I opted for the always safe button-down shirt and jeans combination, and caught my train into the big city. It had been so long since I'd been out on a Saturday night. All the young female receptionists and IT geeks from my work week had apparently spent the afternoon in emo chrysalises that allowed them to emerge as Saturday night goth princesses or steampunk divas or whatever the current terminology is for someone who wears black and makes me think about deviant sex. And the men, well, I'm sure there were men in the city, too. I didn't notice.

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"Yes, fathers are a chronic, bitter disappointment, aren't they?"

The black-clad youth milled around outside the Bowery Ballroom smoking cigarettes and feigning sadness. That's when I realized I'd given the cabbie the wrong address, because I was actually supposed to be at the Mercury Lounge, blocks away. A second cab ride and moments later, I found a more earnest and Irish crowd filling the bar.

THE PRE-SHOW

Unfortunately, the Azkaban Tormenter working the door told me the Bandits had failed to leave a guest list. I looked down at her crooked mouth of misery, wondering what to do, but just then I heard the door behind me open and I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Blindboy and the largest Chinese dude I've ever seen. "Jaysus!" he said to the troll woman. "That's Gladstone! He's with me." She quickly stamped my hand. "Sorry, I just assumed he was a narc." No sooner was I in the venue than I was whisked downstairs to a private underground party area containing lots of PBR, some girls and more Chinese dudes. "Sorry I was late," Blindboy said. "I was at the Statue of Liberty. Bit shit, isn't it? Tupac's not even buried there." One of the large Chinese dudes handed me a PBR. "Um, yeah. So are these guys your friends?" I asked."Ya, Triads," he said. Gas bastards altogether. We met in Chinatown and offered them a job doing security. Can't be too safe in the crazy world of gangsta rap."

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Pictured above: One of the bodyguards posing with his 6-foot-5-inch wife.

"Is that why you wear those bags?" I asked. "A bit. You saw the news, right? Jay-Z clearly had Whitney Houston assassinated to make room in the Illuminati for his baby with Beyonce!" Just then, Blindboy's counterpart, Mr. Chrome, entered, reeking of ecstasy and good cheer and dragging some dude who'd driven seven hours from Rochester to see the show. But an even more impressive display of fandom was the man's "Spastic Hawk" tattoo -- an image from a Bandit's song

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only a few months old.

Sign of true fandom or mental illness?

"Are you insane?" I asked him. "It's too soon for a tat. The song just came out. You need perspective. Some time to figure out if it's "Let It Be" or "Octopus' Garden." There was a silence as the fan slunk away. Apparently, in one thought I'd managed to simultaneously insult both the performers by likening their song to a possible Ringo composition and the fan who had already committed his devotion to permanent ink. "Who the fuck is this?" Chrome asked."I told you. It's Gladstone from Cracked.com." Blindboy answered.Through the holes in his Tesco bag, I could tell that Chrome was not amused."Blindboy, Cracked's got an O'Brien, another O'Brien, a Reilly, a McGinley and a McKinney. Why the fuck are we drinking with the site's only Jew?""That really is a fair question," I said. "And here's another -- why are two Irish guys drinking PBRs?""In Ireland this stuff is an imported delicacy served in hipster bars for about 7 euros. I can't believe it flows cheaply on tap over here.""That's because it's crap. That's the whole point. Hipsters drink it because it sucks.""Well, then here ya go, Gladstone," Blindboy said, handing me the bottle of 12-year-old Jameson Irish Whiskey. "Maybe if you get a few shots of this into you you'll stop acting like a tight-arsed gowl."Just then, a flash didn't go off because no one took a picture. (Fortunately, much later, we employed an acting technique I like to call "sucking" and recreated the moment.)

And it looked a lot like nothing resembling this.

THE AFTER-PARTY

Backstage, after the show, the boys were getting changed in a hurry. "Great show, guys," I said, "but what's the rush?""Chrome got invited to some hipster party in Williamsburg. Get your stuff, we're going. An opportunity to see hipsters in their natural habitat happens once in a lifetime.""Get the fuck out. Some random hipster saw you and invited you to a party without even knowing you were famous back home?""Well," Chrome said, "between the accent and the bag on my head, I'm a pretty attractive guest to an American hipster.""You're basically going to be human PBR tonight."

Before we left, I got a chance to document how happy the Bandits were to be hanging with me.

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Blindboy gave me the address and told me to take a cab and meet them there. Something about them not wanting to show up with me when my overcoat made me look like a composite image of several sex offenders. I showed up about 10 minutes later to find two dejected Bandits and no sign of a party. "What happened?""Fuckin' hipsters wouldn't even speak to us," Blindboy said. "They snobbed us and ran into their home, shooing the sexy birds inside and speaking mental lingo." "What type of lingo?""Hipster talk. I couldn't understand a word.""Umm ... and what did these hipsters look like?" I asked."I dunno, like hipsters. Beards, ironic hats, unnecessarily warm clothes and, most importantly, each one was dressed exactly like the next."It was at this point that I realized the Rubberbandits had not met hipsters but had actually had an encounter with members of Williamsburg's Hasidic Jew community. I tried to explain what that meant.

Understandable mistake. I guess?

"Acidic Jews?" Blindboy asked. "Is that what's wrong with the Gaza Strip? Is it Acidic Jews mixing with Alkali Jews and everything exploding like a science project?"Yes, Blindboy," I said. "That's it, exactly.""Well, we're still finding a hipster party before we leave this town," Chrome said. "But first, I need a phone box.""You can use my cell," I said."No, I need a phone box. You can't take a piss inside the door of a cellphone."Just then, a passing 20-something girl in oversized glasses she didn't need overheard Chrome and promptly asked him if he was Irish, followed by the obligatory "My ancestors are from Ireland" and an ill-informed reference to "Patty's Day." She found Mr. Chrome's hateful rebuke of "Paddy's Day

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, you stupid bitch," inexplicably charming and invited the Rubberbandits to a real live hipster party. (After Blindboy confirmed that, despite the overcoat, I wasn't a sex offender, she said I could come, too).The party turned out to be a small gathering of trustafarians drinking cloudy beer the Bandits referred to as "wasp's piss." Before I knew it, the Bandits and I were finishing off my 1-liter bottle of Jameson. Mr. Chrome disappeared into a bathroom with a couple of redheads, and Blindboy started to leave with a girl dressed in the party's "rockabilly" theme. He waited until she was in the bedroom before turning to me. "Gladstone," he said. "I made a promise to you earlier that you were going to get your hole tonight." "Actually, I believe you said something about 'gash.' Is that the same thing? I'm sorry. I wasn't really sure ..."Blindboy reached into his pocket and pulled out an extra plastic bag, which he then pulled over my head.

It looked just like this, except a little less incredibly terrifying.

"Take this bag," he said. "If Sex and the City

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is anything to go by, women are attracted to shopping. So if you look like shopping, well then, women will psychologically associate you with the pleasure of consumerism and want to take you into a romantic toilet for a finger and a shift.""Blindboy, I appreciate it, but --""Trust me. Just act like you are groceries and go get her!""That's OK, Blindboy. That wasn't really why I came here tonight. Just wanted to see you guys."Blindboy lifted the Jameson. "There's one more shot left. Take it and in a minute some filthy hipster will be calling you 'Daddy.'"

THE MORNING AFTER

"Daddy! Daddy! Wake up." It was my youngest, jumping on my chest. I was on my couch. Somehow. And it was morning."Let Daddy sleep," my wife said. "He's had a hard night of pretending to be a rock star."I remember the warmth of that final shot of Jameson, and then nothing else. I had passed out."Morning, babe," I said, my throat raw and thick."Morning. Any idea why a 6-foot-7-inch Chinese dude brought you home in a rickshaw at 3 a.m. this morning?" she asked."Because I'm really cool?" I suggested."Yeah, that's probably it."It was a fun night, but I was glad to be home, and I could easily wait another nine months until the Bandits came back before having such a time again. But when they did return, I knew I'd be ready. After all, I still had a memento from the evening.

Additional material for this column contributed by Blindboyboatclub of the Rubberbandits.

Gladstone has brought back HATE BY NUMBERS. Also follow Gladstone on Twitter and stay up to date on the latest regarding Notes from the Internet Apocalypse. And then there's his website and Tumblr, too.