Last night was a successful honoring of St. Paddy’s Day debauchery, filled with beer, shots, and my fake Irish accent (here’s a sample: “Aye laddie! Yarrs a wench, ain’t ya?!”) I’m pretty sure that’s Irish, maybe with a hint of pirate.
But the shot du jour of the evening was the Irish Car Bomb, which I had to explain to my friend — who for some reason, could not grasp this concept — that real Irish people (and real Irish bars) are offended by that shot. I tried to explain that Car Bombs are a real problem in Ireland, people die, hence them not being too fond of the nomenclature. It would be like walking into New York and ordering a “9/11″. People might get upset. That, and Irish people don’t do that kind of shot. They enjoy the taste of Guinness without chugging it like a stupid American.
I was parched from all this talking, so we went into an Irish pub and ordered a lot of Irish Car Bombs. We actually did at least 4 in total — clearly, no Irish people worked at this bar — followed by thick beers and more shots. We followed the night binge with the traditional Irish dish of pizza at 3am. I hear they flew in the dough right from the green, rolling hills of the motherland. It tasted like cabbage.
Unfortunately, when I woke up this morning, it seemed as if all those Car Bomb shots left a little extra gas in my tank. I tried, as usual, to light my farts on fire, and let’s just say things went poorly…
If you’re impressed by that, you should see this guy poop.
I love how this picture, supporting binge drinking, was posted on the side of what appears to be a port-a-potty.