Outta Here!
St. Patrick's Day Massacre
March, 2008. Philadelphia, PA—Home for a brief Spring break with no responsibility or academics pressing on the agenda for a week, I find myself patiently waiting outside of a beer distributer off Township Line on a blustery, chilly evening in March, as my older brother’s friend walks outside and taps for me to pop my trunk. He stuffs the two 30-racks of Natty Light next to an overnight bag and a few items that I haven’t used since 2005. I thank him, and drop him off at his parents’ house. There are 60 beers in my trunk. It’s 8:30 PM. I’m 19 years old.
I’ve been looking forward to this little tour de force for a while now. Having already celebrated St. Patrick’s Day at school, I knew I needed a little more. A day of dedication to my heritage and my favorite hobby deserves to be more of an all-month type thing, rather than a 24-hour celebration. I stood in my friend’s basement, my Eagles midnight green Jon Ritchie jersey draped proudly over my chest, a case of ice-cold beer in either hand, and realized that I am only 1 of 3. Am I really expected to do this? Is this the smartest idea? You do the math. 3 guys. 60 beers. As pregame. Probably not. But I didn’t want to be the one to speak up. So, we open ‘em up and check train-times. We have about 10 hours before we need to be on the rail. The St. Patty’s Day parade seemed like an eternity away. Son ofa bitch. This is gonna be tough.
I’ve been looking forward to this little tour de force for a while now. Having already celebrated St. Patrick’s Day at school, I knew I needed a little more. A day of dedication to my heritage and my favorite hobby deserves to be more of an all-month type thing, rather than a 24-hour celebration. I stood in my friend’s basement, my Eagles midnight green Jon Ritchie jersey draped proudly over my chest, a case of ice-cold beer in either hand, and realized that I am only 1 of 3. Am I really expected to do this? Is this the smartest idea? You do the math. 3 guys. 60 beers. As pregame. Probably not. But I didn’t want to be the one to speak up. So, we open ‘em up and check train-times. We have about 10 hours before we need to be on the rail. The St. Patty’s Day parade seemed like an eternity away. Son ofa bitch. This is gonna be tough.
As YouTube music videos came through the speakers, we told stories, ridiculed each other for countless reasons, cooked food through all hours of the twilight, and fought the urge to sleep, each more tremendous and difficult than the next. We had no Adderall connection, so we bought a sack of energy beans (whatever the holy fuck that is) and energy gum. It was just enough to give us the necessary lift over each tiresome mountain. But they tasted like cardboard dipped in decaf coffee. We had to soldier through. We came a long way to this point, as the last can of the first case was discarded.
The night wears on. Rock n’ Roll blasts at level 11, as we shout along to such songs as “Hair of the Dog” and “My Michelle.” The toilet is essentially running on a constant basis due to the repeated bathroom breaks after every beer. We’re loose as geese and popping energy beans like we were going to the chair. The sun peaks out from beyond the horizon and we check the clock. 5:30 AM. There’s no turning back. The countdown is on. One last check of when the train comes because we have forgotten upwards of 25 times throughout the course of the night, and we make our way up the street. While mothers, fathers, and their young are nestled snuggly in their warm beds, we’re finishing the last of the second case, throwing away the empties wherever we see fit. The train comes. We board. It’s 7:30 AM.
Discussion topics range from the Philadelphia Phillies’ Spring Training schedule to attractive actresses in Steven Spielberg films, and anywhere in between with a 20-beer load under your belt. The train stops and we get off. This is when the first problem presented itself. What were we going to do until the parade started? We’re 3 white, Irish Catholics in the middle of the city. We’re underage and in the bucket without a clue. Our collective minds race looking for a solution. After 5-10 minutes of stupid, bullshit ideas that had absolutely no relevance to our standing situation, we agreed that we’d just have to go into a 12 pack store, pick up some essentials and sneak ‘em down until the parade started. This works out flawlessly, and we take our treasure over to an abandoned lot, making sure to stand in the sunlight for warmth, due to the wintry shadows causing an overwhelming cold on our young adult selves. We repeat this process, taking frequent bathroom breaks at a local Dunkin’ Donuts, several times, until we decide to become part of the parade, our Budweiser pounders wrapped in brown paper bags like common street filth. We cause a nonsense scene, including, but certainly not limited to shaking the porta-john as a friend that we met on Broad Street relieves himself, and are almost immediately asked to keep our ground, lest we want to be placed under arrest for any number of wrongdoings.Fine. Let’s get the fuck outta here.
We hitch-hike—a move that I will not ever recommend—to the nearest bar, in hopes that our drunken confidence will shine through and the bartenders will take us for 25 year old men, when in reality we probably looked like 5 year old children playing in the street in a puddle that a dog just urinated in. Our driver offered us drugs. We accepted. This better not be PCP or something weird. The car abruptly stops and we’re told to get out, as 2 of us fell into a deep sleep. We flip the driver off and turn around. We’re at a bar. Let’s try this boys.
We take our respective seats, babbling about God knows what. We order car bombs immediately and challenge a couple to a race. I win. I feel like the man. I go into the bathroom. And I yack and come back out, like nothing happened. We’re all on cloud nine, as we order drink after drink, seemingly passing the 25-30 drink mark. This is getting out of hand. We get cut off and are asked to leave. We comply, as there was no fight left in us. We agree that it is probably time to return home, calling the 20-hour bender a roaring success. We shakingly stand on the sidewalk, contemplating our next move and how we are to get home. I got it! The solution was staring at us right in the beak. Let’s go to another bar. This will give us the proper forum for knowledgeable and observant thinking.
After a quick screening process, the bartender agrees to serves us, the stupid bastard. The rest will be revealed to me at my Final Judgment, as my body finally gave way. From what I gather, I fell asleep on the bar, was woken up by the bartender and my friend and then stumbled into the kitchen looking for the bathroom. This clearly caused an uproar accompanied by a verbal argument with anyone who crossed my path. I showed the Austin salute to the owner and bartenders throwing me on my face in the middle of the city. I come to and question my reality, as I walk back into the bar that I unknowingly was just given the boot.
“No! No, no, no, no! Get the fuck out! You can’t come in! Get out before we call the cops, asshole!”
My defense was likely along the lines of the stupidest comments that anyone has ever uttered in their own behalf.
The rest of the day is pretty much what is anticipated. I had no idea what I was doing, had no business not getting arrested or perhaps even dying, but somehow got home on the train and picked up at the station. A typical blackout? Not precisely. I do remember looking at my cell phone, seeing the multitude of missed calls/text messages, and checking the clock. It’s 8:30 PM. I’ve been drinking without sleep for nearly 24 hours. I smile stretches across my face as I can feel my liver churning my insides. I puke what’s left in my stomach into my buddy’s bathroom toilet, making sure to hold on to glory that was the St. Patrick’s Day Massacre.
--Bunny Stardust
The night wears on. Rock n’ Roll blasts at level 11, as we shout along to such songs as “Hair of the Dog” and “My Michelle.” The toilet is essentially running on a constant basis due to the repeated bathroom breaks after every beer. We’re loose as geese and popping energy beans like we were going to the chair. The sun peaks out from beyond the horizon and we check the clock. 5:30 AM. There’s no turning back. The countdown is on. One last check of when the train comes because we have forgotten upwards of 25 times throughout the course of the night, and we make our way up the street. While mothers, fathers, and their young are nestled snuggly in their warm beds, we’re finishing the last of the second case, throwing away the empties wherever we see fit. The train comes. We board. It’s 7:30 AM.
Discussion topics range from the Philadelphia Phillies’ Spring Training schedule to attractive actresses in Steven Spielberg films, and anywhere in between with a 20-beer load under your belt. The train stops and we get off. This is when the first problem presented itself. What were we going to do until the parade started? We’re 3 white, Irish Catholics in the middle of the city. We’re underage and in the bucket without a clue. Our collective minds race looking for a solution. After 5-10 minutes of stupid, bullshit ideas that had absolutely no relevance to our standing situation, we agreed that we’d just have to go into a 12 pack store, pick up some essentials and sneak ‘em down until the parade started. This works out flawlessly, and we take our treasure over to an abandoned lot, making sure to stand in the sunlight for warmth, due to the wintry shadows causing an overwhelming cold on our young adult selves. We repeat this process, taking frequent bathroom breaks at a local Dunkin’ Donuts, several times, until we decide to become part of the parade, our Budweiser pounders wrapped in brown paper bags like common street filth. We cause a nonsense scene, including, but certainly not limited to shaking the porta-john as a friend that we met on Broad Street relieves himself, and are almost immediately asked to keep our ground, lest we want to be placed under arrest for any number of wrongdoings.Fine. Let’s get the fuck outta here.
We hitch-hike—a move that I will not ever recommend—to the nearest bar, in hopes that our drunken confidence will shine through and the bartenders will take us for 25 year old men, when in reality we probably looked like 5 year old children playing in the street in a puddle that a dog just urinated in. Our driver offered us drugs. We accepted. This better not be PCP or something weird. The car abruptly stops and we’re told to get out, as 2 of us fell into a deep sleep. We flip the driver off and turn around. We’re at a bar. Let’s try this boys.
We take our respective seats, babbling about God knows what. We order car bombs immediately and challenge a couple to a race. I win. I feel like the man. I go into the bathroom. And I yack and come back out, like nothing happened. We’re all on cloud nine, as we order drink after drink, seemingly passing the 25-30 drink mark. This is getting out of hand. We get cut off and are asked to leave. We comply, as there was no fight left in us. We agree that it is probably time to return home, calling the 20-hour bender a roaring success. We shakingly stand on the sidewalk, contemplating our next move and how we are to get home. I got it! The solution was staring at us right in the beak. Let’s go to another bar. This will give us the proper forum for knowledgeable and observant thinking.
After a quick screening process, the bartender agrees to serves us, the stupid bastard. The rest will be revealed to me at my Final Judgment, as my body finally gave way. From what I gather, I fell asleep on the bar, was woken up by the bartender and my friend and then stumbled into the kitchen looking for the bathroom. This clearly caused an uproar accompanied by a verbal argument with anyone who crossed my path. I showed the Austin salute to the owner and bartenders throwing me on my face in the middle of the city. I come to and question my reality, as I walk back into the bar that I unknowingly was just given the boot.
“No! No, no, no, no! Get the fuck out! You can’t come in! Get out before we call the cops, asshole!”
My defense was likely along the lines of the stupidest comments that anyone has ever uttered in their own behalf.
The rest of the day is pretty much what is anticipated. I had no idea what I was doing, had no business not getting arrested or perhaps even dying, but somehow got home on the train and picked up at the station. A typical blackout? Not precisely. I do remember looking at my cell phone, seeing the multitude of missed calls/text messages, and checking the clock. It’s 8:30 PM. I’ve been drinking without sleep for nearly 24 hours. I smile stretches across my face as I can feel my liver churning my insides. I puke what’s left in my stomach into my buddy’s bathroom toilet, making sure to hold on to glory that was the St. Patrick’s Day Massacre.
--Bunny Stardust