Old Irish Eyes Are Smiling…and Bloodshot

I went out for drinks last night in a Queens neighborhood which has a very high population of Irish. Every other bar on the Queens Boulevard of Death is an Irish pub, so we eventually settled into one that had a lush backyard garden, cheap beer and a sign that said “Live Trad Tonight.” Not knowing what ‘trad’ was, we went inside and quickly realized it’s a type of Irish music that sounds like a leprechaun should be dancing to it. We found ourselves on the patio and at the table next to us was a group of rowdy youngins who were downing pint after pint of Guinness in between forkfuls of corned beef and cabbage. One of them seemed pretty drunk and this was confirmed when he stood up and started yelling at the window of the apartment above the bar on the second floor. He really wanted the attention of someone so he proceeded to throw things at the window, the first thing being a tea bag, presumably Twinings Irish Breakfast Tea. Anyone who isn’t drunk would know that a tea bag would not fly very far, much less to a second floor window. Even if it did hit the window, the sound it would make would be indistinguishable. He threw it anyway and the tea bag fell to the patio where he did not bother to pick it up. Nice. He went back to his bowl of potato soup sprinkled with Lucky Charms and then decided he really needed to get to the second floor. Now, I’m not Irish (I’m half regular) but I would have gone out of the bar and then into the building and used the stairs or elevator. But this guy had a better idea. He Riverdanced his way over to the fire escape ladder which was just a bit taller than his leprechaun size and therefore over his head. We all watched him and wondered if this Irish O’douche bag was really going to pull down the ladder to climb up to the second floor. He was. But since he couldn’t quite reach the ladder he decided to stand on a planter because everyone knows it’s a good idea to stand on the edge of a planter when you are drunk and trying to climb a ladder up to the second floor. I sat back and prepared for the show. His friends egged him on as they drank Shamrock Shakes and discussed Sinéad O’Connor’s new haircut. As soon as he put his weight on the planter it toppled over sending him to the ground along with the plant and all the dirt. “Why didn’t I have my cell phone ready?” I cried out. His friends laughed and he stood up with a stupid shit-eating grin on his face and ran back to his table to take another bite of Irish soda bread. He cared not that he had created a huge pile of dirt that was directly in front of the door to the patio that the server would now have to step through. A minute later, the server, who was also Irish, came out and we warned him to avoid the pile of dirt and he looked down just in time to hop over it and not trip. “What happened?” he wanted to know. We pointed to the culprit who was searching for a four-leaf clover. “He knocked it over, but his friends might be able to explain why.” Not one of the people at his table acknowledged it. They completely ignored that their drunk ass friend had made a huge mess of the patio and carried on with their recipe swap of Shepard’s Pie.

The server got down on his knees with a bucket and began sweeping up the dirt. As he did this, the drunk guy stumbled past him and left the patio and another person came up from the table to ask for change. If that ain’t rude, I dunno what is. My Brit friend said to the waiter, “I thought you Irish could hold your liquor.” “Some of us can,” he replied. The rest of the hooligans left the patio after the server was finished cleaning up the mess their friend had made.

I was thankful that wasn’t where I worked. Had that happened in my station, the whole group would have been asked to leave as soon as they had told me where to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I just had to sit there and feel uncomfortable for the waiter who had to clean up dirt because a drunk guy couldn’t control himself. The luck of the Irish must have been with the waiter though because I bet ten minutes later the guy would have tossed his Irish Oatmeal cookies and dirt is a lot better to sweep than puke. It’s ain’t magically delicious.

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9 thoughts on “Old Irish Eyes Are Smiling…and Bloodshot

  1. I would be offended, but the sheer multitude of hamburger-wielding moronic Americans that yankee-doodle their clueless way across Ireland every Summer, make me think that perhaps the stereotypes balance each other out. Love the satire man, keep it up!

  2. Wow, a story ranting about drunk Irish people; original. If you were to write stereotypical crap about any other race it's considered racist but it's alright to write bigoted crap about Irish people. If someone is acting like a drunken ass, just write about how they are acting like a drunken ass; you do not have to bring race (or Lucky Charms) into the story. If you do need to do so….perhaps you need to take some writing classes.

    1. Oh God Wendy dry your eyes and have a drink. He’s entitled to his opinion and 100% correct. Instead of a drunken ass you sound like a right pain in the ass. Go read Martha Stewart.

  3. This? is one of the reasons I don't drink anymore. I'm not really Irish, I'm from Chicago, but My Mother's Name is McCormick so there you go. After a few pints I get a brogue and want to fight. I'm a complete asshole. When I'm not being a complete arse, I'm a total slut. (How apropos – my verification word is "Hoing")So I'll jsut have a diet coke, thanks.

    1. Mary you’re not Irish you’re American. No one would consider you Irish in Ireland. You’re one of these Americans continuing the myth that all Irish people get drunk and fight…..and why would you get a brogue from Chicago? Just because I eat pasta doesn’t mean I’m going to have an Italian accent. Ya you’re right stick to the diet cokes sounds best for everyone involved

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