the lance smith show

Douchebags Go Braugh

Today is St. Patrick’s Day.  Drink and be merry.  It is, after all, a Christian holiday.

Earlier today I was in the grocery store procuring various… groceries… and I overheard a group of clerks and stockboys (forgive me if I’ve used a now derogatory term for those that stock shelves. But they were all 21 and under) debating on the actual meaning of St. Patrick’s Day.  One young man didn’t care and said so loudly.  ”Dude I’m just gonna get f****** drunk!  So why the f*** does is matter!?”  I really didn’t need anything in this aisle but I perused the feminine products as if I myself was suffering from a raging yeast infection.  Banter between idiots is always far too entertaining to turn down.  The bright one of the group tried to sound as knowledgeable as he could, mustering up, “It’s about this guy Patrick and snakes and shit.”  To which the one I dubbed, Shaves With Seashells, replied “Did he wear a lot of green?  ’Cause that’s what’s crazy.”  Ah yes.  It is crazy, isn’t it, Mr. Seashells?  This went on for a few minutes and soon my attention was spent.  It was the conversation equivalent of a local stock car race, not much invested and going in circles. (no offense to small circuit racing enthusiasts, it’s only a metaphor)  But I left the lady product aisle scratching my head at what those jackasses were actually going to end up doing this evening.  Perhaps because I had no real plans of my own I needed to mentally live vicariously through their simple lives.  But besides a spiffy little annual holiday that celebrates the ushering in of Christianity in Ireland and how the shamrock is symbolic of the Holy Trinity and on the day of March 17 we give into our indulgences and drink ‘til we puke and convince everyone within shouting distance that we possess some infinitesimal drop of Irish heritage, I guess it’s also fun to just be a jackass for a night.  The only trouble I had upon leaving the store and the Super Crew behind is knowing that tonight is just like any other Saturday night for them, except now it has a globally recognized name in which they can justify their usual debauchery.

So drink and toke and smoke and snort and shoot it up fellas.  Punch someone in the face because, let’s face it, you know you want to.  And then give a big guttural, neanderthal yell and tell the world “KISS ME, I’M IRISH!!”