Monday, March 17, 2003

To Sanjay, the good man at me Dunkin Donuts! Ye serve me green-frosted donuts with li’l green sprinkles today! Let’s drink Guinness till we vomit!

To Eugene, the li’l midget who hands out strip-club fliers on the corner of 44th and 8th! All year long ye’re just a smut-peddling wee one, but today, ye put on a green plastic hat and ye drew a sloppy four-leaf clover with a Sharpie on yer filthy T-shirt. Ye’re a leprechaun come to life! Erin go bragh, little one! Let’s drink Harp till we upchuck!

To Lucky, the Lucky Charms mascot! Ye silly little corporate logo! Blue diamonds and purple horseshoes don’t help … what ye need is a Trix Rabbit’s foot fer good luck! Let’s drink Caffrey’s till we yack up our marshmallow treats!

To Hunter and Kelly and Jade! Ye’re three o’ me favorite shades o’ green. Also, ye’re three lovely lasses who get randy after a couple o’ drinks. Top o’ the mornin’ to ye! Let’s drink Baileys Irish Cream till we regurgitate, then black out, and finally wake up in the beds o’ regrettable strangers!

To Scotsmen and Welshmen everywhere! I’ve ignorantly mistaken ye for Irishmen time and again! Hell, ye’re all Micks to me! Let’s drink Scotch till we hurl on our kilts!

To Southies in Boston! It’s not yer fault. It’s not yer fault. It’s not yer fault. Let’s drink Killkenny till we toss our cookies, get into a bar brawl, and wake up in prison with one eye stitched closed!

To Doozers, homerun M&Ms, Budweiser frogs, Chia Pets, lime Jell-O shots, Newport Lights and Area 51 aliens! Ye’re all little, green, and magical! That makes ye Leprechauns in me book! Let’s drink Jameson till we yuke on our shoes and pass out face-down in a puddle of other people’s green vomit! Where’s the magic now, eh?

To Kathy Ireland’s 1992 cover o’ the Sports Illustrated “Swimsuit Issue”!

To me Zooropa CD!

To freckles!

Let’s all drink gurgla hrreg till we argurahh largaa rabbaa harggghaaah … !

And most of all, to Officer McGinty, me favorite Irish stereotype! Ye walkin’ the beat, swinging yer nightstick, whistlin’ … Ye’re me favorite o’ all Irish cartoons, more than that li’l guy who starts bar brawls, or the old boozehound with the red nose and jowls, or the big red lug, or the knuckles-rapping nun … Officer McGinty, I salute ye!

Let’s drink till we need stomachs pumped, livers transplanted, and licenses revoked! Top o’ the mornin’! Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

Ray Stillman once killed a man with his bare hands, although he is not one to brag about such things. He is an aspiring screenwriter, an inspiring poet, and a perspiring photographer. Mr. Stillman is an ex-New Yorker who now lives in scenic, sunny, star-saturated Los Angeles, in an apartment building between a bowling alley and a tattoo parlor. He often finds it difficult to resist the urge to ink “Gutter balls” across the knuckles of his left hand. He has made sweet, sweet love with supermodel Heidi Klum many, many times but, again, is not one to brag.

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