Excessive partying paired with my birthday forty eight hours later are the main culprits for why I have never written a Saint Patrick's Day Clog. It is said that Saint Patrick cleansed Ireland of the Paganism that corrupted its people, and illuminated them with the bright angelic light of Christianity. Oddly enough, an alarming amount of Whiskey and Guinness is consumed to celebrate Saint Patrick's purification of Ireland and its heathen customs. The stench of irony hangs in the air more pungent than stale booze. Unlike previous years, the majority of my Saint Patrick's Day was spent participating in good clean fun.
I started my day like any good Irishman worth salt, by bathing myself in Irish Spring Soap. I actually no not the connection between this particular soap and Ireland.
Guinness brownies were baked the previous night to be enjoyed on Saint Patrick's Day with my dear old Grandpa.
Norman has been eating McDonald's every Saint Patrick's Day for as long as I can remember. Come to think of it, he eats it on most other days as well.
Norm's indirect protest against corned beef indirectly inspired others to eat McDonald's throughout the day. "I feel like this Cup Noodles has too much sodium, I think I'll just wait for my double cheeseburger," declared Mr. Shawn Fast.
A cheeseburger looks on with envy as Trevor stylishly backside disasters.
When asked what type of beverage this youngster was sipping out of his Starbucks cup he replied, "It's Chardonnay." The ingenuity of the youth at Cesar Chavez Park always astonishes me.
Buckets by Fnan to end the day.
Irish car bombs are the least intelligent thing to drink, which makes them the most entertaining. And when being served by this regal chap nothing can go wrong.
I retract my previous statement. Kiss me, I'm standing up straight.
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