We see here two gents attempting to score a field goal by dunking the disc in the — screw it, we have no clue.

We interrupt your evening drinking to bring you this St. Patrick’s Day sports bulletin: the Irish lost to the Brits in rugby this afternoon, 30-9. Now, that result prompts a good question: what is rugby? “No one knows” is the correct answer. All we can be sure of is that it’s like football with more punching and its own Ralph Lauren collection. Consider this a juicy tidbit of shamrock-shaped trivia to pull out while you’re slowing turning green from all that food coloring.

Chocolate/Vanilla frosting and shamrock sprinkles. Not pictured: plain chocolate and vanilla cupcakes.

Happy St. Ratty’s day! Say what you want about its everyday fare, but everyone’s favorite refectory never fails to pull out all the stops on special occasions. Go on over and decorate your own edible arrangements while supplies still last – you’ll need something in your stomach if you plan on making it through the day.

A very different ode to St. Patrick’s Day. We love you, Mr. President.

Consider this time-waster to be a humorous pregame for your impending inebriation. St. Patrick’s Day is tomorrow and I’m sure you’ve already thought of a bunch of culturally-insensitive drinks to imbibe, but I’d like to offer an alternative. Normally I’d link to a site that has the recipe in detail, with accurate beverage terminology and all that, but this one really has only two ingredients: Baileys and…uh…a shoe. I’m talking about the ever-so-Irish foot liquor concoction that figures prominently in this classic episode of the British comedy The Mighty Boosh. I freely admit that this video terrifies me, and yet I can’t look away. Stick with it, Dear Reader – after the Baileys comes dancing and funky cartoons. Bottoms up!

When I turned 21, the age when the morally upright Uncle Sam decided I could handle booze, I was abroad in London. It’s a city that proves gloomy enough without an unwelcome birthday. London’s nickname is “the Smoke,” which is appropriate because it’s very gray and because I sometimes found it was hard to breathe there.

It was April 6. As the clock approached midnight, I downed some Stellas at a sparsely populated café. A few of my moneyed friends had left London the day before to go skydiving in Lucerne, Switzerland; I was mostly broke and completely alone.

When I sobered up, I found myself aboard a train to Hollyhead — a seaside town in Wales. From Hollyhead, I bought a roundtrip ferry ride to Dublin. I boarded the vessel and promptly fell asleep in the first available chair, mumbling about a Portrait of Dorian Gray. I awoke with a dry mouth aboard the ferry. I got up and stepped carefully: the floor was littered with bodies; each was asleep or hoping to be. It was around five-thirty in the morning when the sun smudged the sky, polluting the cragged Irish coast with a sour orange.

F. Scott Fitzgerald would introduce himself at parties as “one of the most notorious drinkers of the younger generation.” While I’ve sort of fallen in love with the phrase, I’m not as brilliant a drinker or writer as he was. Anyway, I needed something of an introduction (as I knew no one and had no plan) so I went with a typical Irish greeting: “What’s the craic?” [Read more →]