St. Patrick’s Day has been one of my favorite holidays since as I long as I can remember. Which unfortunately, isn’t very long, seeing I’ve annihilated so many precious brain cells due to years of somewhat legendary alcohol consumption. Now that I’m going on two years sober, I still love St. Pat’s Day, but it’s taken on a whole different level of celebration these days. It’s more tame now. Ma-hutch more tame.
In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, I’ve enlisted a guest author to write this post. I can’t think of a better guy to take over my blog on this day! I truly hope you enjoy! Slainte!
As I look around the house on this revered day of revelry, I see shamrocks, smiling leprechauns, and pots o’ gold adorning the windows and walls. I listen to the Irish lullabies, yarns, and anthems coming from the stereo. And I’m carried away by the aroma of baked corned beef wafting through the house.
What I don’t see is a bunch of shit faced miscreants, sloshing green beer all over each other, while belting out Danny Boy at the top of their lungs.
Oh yeah, I’m Tom’s liver.
So, I decided to use my guest post to write Tom a “thank you” letter. Straight from me to him. And I figured it’d be especially poignant on St. Patrick’s Day, as this was the day he usually took extra special care in beating the shit out of me.
I don’t think you’ve killed off every last working brain cell, so you probably know that today is St. Patrick’s Day. Actually, I’m sure you know it’s St. Patrick’s Day…you and those sugar addled, Hell Goblins you call children are all wearing green shirts and ridiculously oversized green top hats. Sheesh…nothing says Irish Pride like a ginormous felt hat from the Dollar Barn.
Anyway, I just really wanted to say thank you for not trying your damnedest to absolutely destroy me the past two years, on this most drunktabulous of all holidays. I can’t believe it’s already been two St. Paddy’s Days that you haven’t drank more than your own weight in booze. I remember those days of yesteryear when you and your buddies would wake up at the ass crack of dawn – probably still MC hammered from the previous night’s activities – and stumble down to the local pub for a liquid breakfast. I always meant to ask you, what kind of special moron do you have to be to start drinking Jamison at six in the morning!? Jeez. You’d be about as eloquent as Dick Clark, in his last two years, by 10:00 AM. But then you’d wind up having some brilliant revelation that it was time to get sober. So you’d switch from Irish whisky to beer. Meanwhile, I was starting to feel like I went 9 rounds with Mike Tyson!
You wound up carrying on like this into the wee hours of the next morning, every once in a while pausing to stuff your drunken face with a greasy corned beef sandwich. And don’t get me started on the singing…Holy shit! You assholes thought you were like the Irish Tenors or something. My Irish Eyes Are Smiling? Screw you! It was more like, My Polish Ears Are Hurting. And I don’t even have ears for God’s sake…I’m a liver! We have no ears!
The worst part is, you didn’t even stop that nonsense once you had kids. Sure, you weren’t going out and carousing around like some drunken hooligan. YOU WERE JUST DOING IT AT HOME! Golly, man…I don’t know how you did it. Don’t get me wrong, I know it was fun. And the partying at the house was never out of control. It was actually quite festive. At least nobody was pissing on the floor, or flashing green painted body parts!
But you never remembered any of it.
What fun is that?
You didn’t remember getting the kids dressed up in their first little St. Patrick’s Day outfits. You didn’t remember dancing with your daughter…with her little feet on top of yours. You didn’t remember how great the food was. After your wife slaved away all day in the kitchen, making the best St. Patrick’s Day meals ever. You didn’t remember playing air guitar with your son, to Finnegan’s Wake. You didn’t remember singing them all Irish lullabies as they went to sleep.
None of it.
But to tell you the truth, I really didn’t care. I was pissed. I planned on doing as much damage to you, as you did to me. I was gonna have the last word.
But then that miserable heart of yours pulled me aside and told me you were changing your ways. Apparently, your heart saw all the shit you were doing too. But it was big enough to get you to realize that you were being an asshole. Your heart won, man. You guys did it. You sobered up. I know it wasn’t easy, but you managed. And you came out of it pretty good. It’s amazing how the heart can change a person. I guess that’s why you don’t see livers and spleens, and shit on Valentine’s cards. I’m not mad at you anymore either. You’ve actually been treating me and the rest of the guys pretty good.
I’m proud of you buddy. Your kids are proud of you. You’re still making great memories, but this time around, you’re remembering them.
Even if you do look like a big green moron.
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, Tom. I’ll leave you with a little Irish jig I wrote just for you.
Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra
Tank goodness ya drink no more beer-ya
And whack fol the dah
Yer liver says Hurrah!
No more a drunken asshole-ya