Friday, March 25, 2011

I could have bright ideas if my head was a lamppost. My first idea would be to get my human head back.

           After reading about Saint Patrick, I thought his holiday would involve sharing the Gospel and loving people from all cultures. This message must have gotten lost in translation over the years since I only saw the sharing of Guinness and an Irishman and an Asian woman snogging.
We watched the Saint Patrick’s Day parade from our box office seats on a roof top. This was grand, because I would not want to see any of the “creative” things we witnessed that day up close. Don’t get me wrong, I love dancing potato chips, people with lampposts for heads, and a sinister wiener dog on wheels as much as the next lass, but I draw the line at creepy  twelve-foot tall walking dolls that blink. In theory, these all would belong at a trippy yet fun medieval festival. But, like the clown doll in my grandma’s guest bedroom that looks like it’s being strangled by the balloons it’s holding as it watches you sleep, it really isn’t that fun at all.  

Monster dog is ornery because his head is too big to wear a shamrock hat.
The potato chips couldn't reach us from here, even though they had arms.
                  We then attended a match of the fastest sport in the world-hurling. It involves chugging a gallon of milk and then seeing who can make it come back up the quickest. That’s how the Americans play it at least. The Irish pros play by using lacrosse sticks and a ball, and they run to and fro for an hour while scoring both in a net and through a football goal post. Gaelic football is played the same way, but without sticks. We didn’t really know what was going on or who was playing, so we picked the team with the prettiest jersey or the guy with the coolest hair and rooted to our hearts’ content. The Christmas Colors were slayed by the Yellow Zebras! The Colors’ spirits were broken and they resumed their usual life back in the north.   

Baby Jack is wonders why we're making faces at him
 when he's clearly too old for that nonsense.
                A few of us meandered over to Temple Bar area and dined at Quay’s. Emily Day and I walked across the street where we were meant to meet her friend. I started taking pictures of the crowd around us, when a young Brazilian man approached us.
Brazil: Would you like me to take your picture?
Audrey: Ohh, no thank you. [I don’t want you to steal my camera.]
He chatted us up a bit (probably because he was 5’5”), and before he left, said, “It was very nice to meet you.” He extended his hand, and I began to shake it. But then, my hand started moving upward, and it wasn’t just because of the shaking. He was going in for the kiss. My hand was being sucked upward toward his alien spaceship of a mouth. I wasn’t even wearing a “Kiss me I’m Irish” shirt.
                Emily and I returned to the pub. However, there was a bouncer the size of a full grown man blocking the door. I pretended not to see the giant and make my way in, but he stopped us. We were not to be allowed upstairs. “We have a table up there already,” I protested. He then let us in. Now I know what to say if I ever need to lie to a bouncer. 

If I told St Peter I already had a table, I don't think he'd believe me.
                 Back in the Temple Bar arena once again, an Irish lad approached us with his friends. I don’t think he told us one true statement. He was from Maryland, which was in Wisconsin. He also had Justin Bieber’s hair. Strike two. His friend, we shall call him Spike, then began a proposal.
                Spike: “Ladies, I know this is very strange, but my friend is turning 21 and we’re trying to get him 21 kisses. Would you be willing to help a fellow out?”
                Girls: “No.”
[In addition, the guy we believe he was addressing looked to be 28 and had the type of facial hair that would erupt in a full-blown beard in a matter of hours.]         
He persisted in asking for a few more minutes. Then, he made a monumental discovery, revealing why we would not say yes.
                Spike: “…You don’t drink, do you?”
                Still sober girls:“ Correct!”
                Spike: “Hey! Me neither. Look, I have viht-ah-min water!...So, will you kiss him?”
                Audrey: “I just ate, so my mouth has had enough action for one night.”
                We soon after made our way back to the DART. But before the night was over, one girl celebrated the holiday in true St Patrick’s Day fashion by hurling on the pavement. Even though she didn’t drink, the food poisoning, ear infection, and stress made sure she finished her Irish night properly.
Justin Beaver must have thought I was giving him a high five

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