Last night, CK and I went with Jack the Senator to a local Irish bar to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day by standing cheek to cheek with the other ten thousand people who had the same idea. There’s another “Irish” bar within walking distance of the office, but all the high school kids go there. We went to a place where men were men (as evidenced by the man-on-man love incident in the restroom), the women were hot and the horse racing was televised.
Since there’s no smoking allowed INSIDE, all the smokers were crammed out on the patio. The entire time we were there, the crowd never thinned. By the time we left, there was a mob outside, waiting for admission. We mostly stayed on the border of outside and inside right at the back door (not to be confused with that restroom incident). If we were out, we got fogged by the smokers, but if we were in, we couldn’t talk over all the bagpiping and screaming.
Being a forward thinking man, Jack packed not one, but two bottles of green food coloring, in case anyone’s drink needed some Holiday brightening. CK was convinced the bottles contained Rohypnol, so she wouldn’t let him get anywhere near her beverage. Since, by definition, I’m the naive one, I let him turn my drink a festive green, then gave it to CK to hold so I could take a picture.
The kilted bagpiper kissed my hand and CK asked him what was in his sporran. Now we know where he keeps his keys, spare change, cigarettes, lighter, and condoms, but that’s what happens when you ask that sort of question. I think Jack regretted his decision to accompany two women to the bar, ’cause I saw him phoning for help.
The beer delivery man showed up to replenish the supply. We cheered him on as he lowered keg after keg into the cool cellar under the place. I think we made him pretty happy, because he said that he doesn’t usually get that kind of reception. He had to stop when he ran out of beer on the truck.
CK had her eye on Irish Sweater Guy all night, so once while I was walking past him on the way to the bar, I said, “I like your sweater”. He said, “It’s for sale, you know”. Having confirmed the presence of an actual Irishman IN an Irish bar ON St. Patrick’s Day, I reported my findings to CK. ISG and his group meandered over to the corner where we were standing and CK took advantage of the close quarters to gently cup his behind in her hand. She has very small hands, so he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and just didn’t mind.
Things we learned last night about going out to bars:
1) Don’t carry a purse. It doesn’t matter how small it is, there is no place to set it down, and you’re going to get tired of holding it.
2) Pay in cash only. Credit card transactions take forever to process and you’re left standing next to a woman asking you, “Outdoor sex. Are you for or against it?”
3) Don’t wear a big-ass coat. You’re going to burst into flames.
4) If you MUST get it on in the mens’ room, lock the door.
5) There is no fifth thing. I just thought the list looked better with an odd number of items.