Round 3

Weeks ago, I had planned on being in sunny Phoenix for St Patrick’s Day, but that all went to shit when I was called away for work. Patrick was away, too, but we were both flying into O’Hare Friday night. He met me at my gate, we dropped off our stuff and took the L downtown… but not before grabbing a bottle of the hard stuff and a diet coke chaser. So good, so redneck.

Since I’d had a lunch of Lamb Stew (on a Friday! –thanks, Pope Jo) and worked up until the very last minute I had to leave for the airport, I really didn’t get a chance to eat dinner. Since I’m such a fatty, I thought my body would be able to absorb the alcohol, even on an empty stomach… that assumption was wrong, so very wrong.

The first bar was pretty loud and out-of-control. We found a spot and made conversation with a group of guys who’d walked in behind us. While casually sippin down the green beer, one of the fellas we’d met decided to up the ante and proposed we do a shot for every green thong. I did a quick room scan and agreed. Who knew there were so many filthy green-thonged whores out on St Pat’s Day? Keep in mind, Patrick and I are already a bottle in on the night.

Now, I’m not totally certain at what point (thong whore 7 or 8 perhaps) I decided a bearded man was the hottest thing to me on the planet or at what point I decided it was my mission to make-out or at least kiss every guy sporting one. Beards are a bit of an anomaly these days, but seek and ye shall find. And let’s face it, it’s a pretty safe bet that the type of guy rocking a beard is the type of guy who’d let a chick like me kiss him. I tried to convince Patrick to do the same, but I am afraid bearded women just don’t hold the same appeal.

After only the second bar, it was safe to assume we would be staying there for the rest of the night because A) I’m pretty sure between my bad luck, the super cute Ferragamo denim slingback heals I had on, and my need to drink my body weight in alcohol, a broken ankle was imminent. (Although, if I needed to walk anywhere, I would’ve made a ridiculously high offer of money to some asshole to buy the shoes off his feet and he would’ve sold them to me because men are idiots) and B) I wasn’t sure how I was going to convince a bouncer that a group of wasted guys and I were sober and not a total liability (and judging from January’s SoDak incident, I am a liability). Nevertheless, We were at a pretty familiar bar and the crowd was fun, not the yuppie-garbage you usually get on St Patrick’s Day, so we were pretty content to stay. What was left of the night played out in much of the same manner - me molesting bearded men, Patrick visually molesting large breasted women, Mr. Let’s Take A Shot For Every Thong passing out at the bar (on the bar), Mr. LTASFET’s friends mercilessly harassing him and capturing the moment through photography, and of course, people sleeping in the bath tub.