As you may have guessed from my name, I am not of Irish descent. I was not blessed with pale skin, red hair, or freckles. My people do not get burnt by the sun, name their children Danny, or center their meals around the potato. So, what could I do on Saint Patrick’s Day? I drank. I drank heavily.
One does not know the power of St. Patrick’s day until they find themselves throwing up green beer in an alleyway, then going back inside for more.
Why must they make things green? Green. The color of mold. The color of things gone bad. On this day, green food is good food. Praise be.
This is the day that every Caucasian, no every person is able to say and wish and hope that they are Irish. What is it that we celebrate? I truly have no idea, but an old Irish man told me that it had something to do with ridding Ireland of snakes.
“Snakes. St. Patrick the country of Ireland from the snakes! Buy my friend a drink!”
When I say that this gentleman was Irish, I do not know this with certainty. He had a strong drawl, a Guinness mustache and eczema. He could have been from West Virginia. I do not know, but he bought me a beer and taught me of St. Francis. Turns out St. Francis also converted many pagans over towards Christ. I guess that’s a good thing. I will drink to that.
Imagine me, a gorgeous Guatemalan who was blessed with not so pale skin, inside a very Irish bar in the middle of “dancing” Irish dances. Why the quotation marks? Because jumping up and down while bringing your ankle to your waist is not dancing. It’s a standing seizure. But, it turns out that the redheaded ladies seem to enjoy seeing two Guatemalans do their version of the Riverdance, so on this St. Patrick’s day, I Guatemalaneded it up. It was glorious.
“Where did you learn to dance like that?”
Did you like that? My grandfather was Irish.
“Oh yeah. You look Irish. What was your grandfather’s name?”
Francisco, I mean, Francis O’Douls.
“Oh, O’Douls. That’s hot. I like that. You must be a Black Irish.”
Oh, my little sweet red-haired princess, I’ll be anything you want if you just keep talking to me. Then, of course, the green beer that had settled nicely in my stomach expressed its strong desire to escape my Guatemalanness with a belch. A green belch. My little redhead didn’t take well to that, but luckily my shirt was green.
Green vomit does not stain a green shirt. But a belch, bueno, a belch ruins even Irish foreplay.