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Tuesday, 18 March


With all due respect to the filthy Irish, fuck St. Patrick's Day (which the church had moved back to Saturday anyway, but nobody paid attention). It's Amateur Night, and I won't have any part of it, not even at the Bar That Shall Not Be Named; they even went and put Bushmill's shots on special for five bucks a go the whole night, and you know how many they sold? None.

No, instead they were overrun with yowling fucknecks and simpering harridans-in-waiting ordering shit like the repellent "Everybody's Irish:"

2 ounces Irish whiskey
1/4 ounce green Chartreuse
1/4 ounce green creme de menthe
Cocktail olive for garnish

Are you fucking kidding me? Would you spend time with anyone willing to put this in his mouth? (People have been saying this about Elliot Spitzer, too. HEY-O!) This is like a drink created by Gallagher specifically to be drunk only by Kobayashi.

Or how about this gem, the "Triclops," which was apparently dreamed up by Anton LaVey:

3 ounces vodka
1 ounce Sprite
Cocktail olive for garnish

This just makes me seethe. Hey, why not knock out all your teeth too! Then with a bloody grin, you can dribble your broken teeth into your drink and when you're done with your drink, you can spit your Sprite-y teeth at the other bar patrons who already hate you anyway? Then you can have a loud, toothless, unenunciated cellphone conversation about what a fucking St. Patrick's Day booze warrior you are with some horrible drunk chick in a green microskirt who is unaware of all the vaguely date-rapey guys leering at her as she adjusts her socks. Also, it's seven PM.

Fuck trying to go out on St. Patrick's Day. The wife and I stayed in and invited our friends J. and E. over for corned beef and potatoes, because I guess nobody's entirely immune to the cultural stereotype thing. Which is why we also whipped up some green milkshakes and hassled some garter snakes that were hanging around our patio.

(I know about the falsity of the snake thing. You know what I didn't know about? The Oilliphéist, the Caoránach, and the Copóg Phádraig! And I still don't, because I got bored reading the Wikipedia page. But you have to admit, those things sound hilarious.)

Dinner was set for 8:00, and was only slightly complicated by J. and E. not showing up remotely close to 8:00. It turned out that J. was kept late at work because--I'm not making this up--one of J.'s servers caught on fire. (I have since seen and can attest to the validity of his nerd papers.) Because I didn't know, I'll go ahead and ask you all: do you know what happens when a server catches on fire? J. told me what happens: a little red light blinks at you.

This is why nerds have been on the short end of the evolutionary stick for so many generations: meekness. When buildings or forests or normal humans catch on fire, they tend to ring, crackle or scream quite loudly. Then they get help, and possibly get to continue to exist! When geek-controlled things burst into flames, they just quietly wave their electronic hands around. When nerds themselves catch fire, they probably just blink frantically. It reminds me of my old sixth-grade diabetic friend Marty, who once, in the midst of experiencing a reaction in class during a particularly contentious discussion, quietly sat with his hand raised until called upon, whereupon he finally said, "I'm having a reaction."

Also, his girlfriend recently had surgery to put some metal in her hand, and now she's going to get one of those medical "get out of airport screening free" cards that says "Weird Chick Totally Has Metal In Her Hand; Don't Fuck With Her; Is Possibly A Terminator." So you know she has issues too. Why did we invite these damaged souls into our home? Nobody else will talk to us. Even so, they didn't make it over until a little before 9:00 thanks to fiery, truculent technology, but fortunately, corned beef appears to be unruinable, which you can probably say about all of your favorite boiled meats.

In all, it was a good evening, and happily unspoiled by yarking greenboys or stumbling bikini skanks. But there was, of course, one hitch. It has a minor and stupid backstory.

Some months ago, Budweiser had the astonishingly shitty idea of teaming up with Clamato to release this . . . beverage that they called "Chelada," a perversion of a perfectly fine Southwest/Mexican drink tradition of leavening shitty lager with tomato juice, lime and salt in order to create a refreshing summer drink (I swear this is true). And when it came out, J. managed to sneak a can of it into my fridge as a joke; when I discovered the offending thing, I swore to him that I would make him drink it.

This was the night. I pulled out the giant can--24 deathless ounces--and squinted apprehensively at the label, which, yes, was still trumpeting the good sense of this collison of Budweiser and Clamato. With a coroner's clinical eye, I examined the "nutritional information" boxlet, and encountered this terrifying fragment: "Contains shellfish/clams." I clouted J. about the head and torso and wept at our fate.

I poured the stuff into a couple of glasses; pinkish and wan, it looked like poorly oxygenated blood, or perhaps a pleural effusion. It bore virtually no head whatsoever, the carbonation presumably overcome by the angry, imprisoned shellfish/clam zombies. Even pouring it was dispiriting, like watching suicides falling from tall buildings. We smelled our samples and were not encouraged: it was a hellishly chemical lime nose that seemed to grouchily throw punches at the only other olfactory note, which was a sickly tomatoesque sweetness. Finally, we took a sip.

This was possibly as close to the American tradition of St. Patrick's Day that we got that evening. For one brief horrifying moment, J. and I drank an alcoholic beverage that was, for all intents and purposes, like drinking pure, unadulterated malignity. For a mere moment, we were as one with all of those douchebags out there in all of those Stygian Irish bars, drinking the undrinkable.

Then we poured the noxious horror out and poured ourselves some white wine.

Note: Comments are closed on old entries.


On Sunday I invented a drink called "The Troubles" which consists of 1 part Jameson, 1 part Bushmill's. No one will order it, though.

Comment number: 016976   Posted by: jwer on March 19, 2008 08:37 AM from IP:

I actually had a great night out at the Cha Cha. Their new space isn't claustrophobic at all this time, and everyone in there was devastatingly attractive...which might have had something to do with the bartender pouring me about 2.5 the normal amount of whisky each time....

And I did discover that I prefer Bushmill's to Jameson's. We should all learn something new every day.

Comment number: 016977   Posted by: lythea on March 20, 2008 05:39 AM from IP:

The asshat who came up with the concept of seafood-based alcoholic beverages should be beaten with sticks, then forced to walk the earth wearing a placard bearing the word 'Dipshit'.

Comment number: 016978   Posted by: You can call me, 'Sir' on March 20, 2008 08:49 AM from IP:


I once knew a skot who drank tomato beers for five straight hours in a pickup truck. he was being taken to the place that would become his home, in seattle. salt and pepper were added to the froth and when it settled correctly, the head looked like a day-old dominos pepperoni pizza. in between screaming bouts of tyee! and putting the boots to schmoo, this young skot quaffed said beverage heartily and banged much head to the revolting cocks, who were busily engaged in making the world a better place for you and your hog bitch girlfriend. clamato was not considered, but one smash pack of raineer pounder lagers were consumed in a 3:1 ratio with spicy V8 juice before the golden, heroin-seeded alleys of capital hill were reached, where he was deposited. to hell with those green beer chumps anyway.

Comment number: 016979   Posted by: spinal on March 20, 2008 07:10 PM from IP:

you sure use a lot of them thar big words i don't know!

Comment number: 016980   Posted by: christian on March 21, 2008 03:02 PM from IP:

-Big arsed words, like "astonishingly," and "Oilliphéist" and "Caoránach, and "Copóg Phádraig."

I like to try and say em with a mouthfulla chawbaccy.

Shocking revelations to be sure, but I have a beery recollection of a previous IPfaff posting that refers to the tomato beer roadtrip above. Was this how you moved to Seattle?

Comment number: 016983   Posted by: Sparky on March 21, 2008 10:21 PM from IP:

It was indeed. And as you might suspect, good Mr. Spinal was the fellow who along with his trusty pickup truck who moved me here.

Sorry about those fucking smart text artifacts. I didn't notice them until the next day, and by then I couldn't be bothered to fix them.

Comment number: 016984   Posted by: Skot on March 22, 2008 01:15 PM from IP:

..thats dr spinal, which makes a damn whit of difference now. izzle is all I have left of seattle, and damned if I don't love it even more.

your genius has really flowered, skot. I check this damned thing twelve times a week, and I'll bet your readership is bigger than j neuroflimflam. yahr, bro-hem. thank god those dumbass paddy o'furniture frat chumps never got ahold of you for a tall glass of finnegan's wake.

love to the wife and puh-leeeze keep this up. it effin kills me when posts do not appear.


Comment number: 016985   Posted by: spinal on March 22, 2008 07:43 PM from IP:

my grandmother drank beer and tomato juice. unfucking believably disturbing to a youg child.
I thought all grammas were schizophrenic drunks who banged on your door in the middle of the night to be let back in.
I know everyone will hate me for saying this, but i'm 38, its late, and I'm just gonna say it.
My gramma on my mom's side was a skank.
Thanks for the venue and the means, Skot. That felt awesome.

Comment number: 016986   Posted by: Alyxmyself on March 22, 2008 09:23 PM from IP:

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