Post-Modern Drunk: Pogue Mahon
It's amateur hour on the streets today. So much fucking green. Green, the color of the bile that rises in my throat when I see Irish eyes be smiling.

I have a great fondness for the Irish. I lived in Cork for half a year, and generally consider the Irish, Scots, and Turks (odd combination, I know) to be the greatest people in the world, as far as you can judge entire countries of people. But these punks out on my streets, falling down drunk at noon, wearing oversized ugly green hats, these are the people I hate.

They've got none of the stumbling elegance I have when I'm drunk. No style. No panache. For when I drink I am the greatest person who has ever lived! Jesus Christ, Muhammad Ali, Karl Marx, you guys got nothing on me!

These punks just drink and shout and pee on my office building and try to bum cigarettes off of me and don't they know that I'm quitting after this pack, or maybe the next one, and I need every single one of these because I will be a smoker no longer any day now! Leave me alone! You know this isn't the first time...

In fact, this is two years in a row that out of spite or because I just don't like being told I have to do something, I have gone without drinking on St. Patrick's Day. I'm going to try to do the same tonight, but, god, if I have to stay on the streets of Manhattan for much longer, I'm going to flip out and start pounding shots faster than they can pour them.

They're going to need two bartenders just to get me my booze in time. It's going to take all you people years to recover from all the damage...

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this is not my beautiful friday random ten (3/17/06)				six pack of sparks, at work

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