Blame it on the Al-al-alchohol

14 Mar

“We’re professionals.” Is a common toast for us. In the rag tag group of hooligans I frequently find myself at the bar with we take a certain amount of pride in our conduct as devotees of Bacchus. We’re the first to show up at the party and the last to leave. Wherever we roam, whether to outdoor kegger or upscale speakeasy we bring nothing but class and unmitigated good times. Perhaps even the lions share of sexiness.

At birthday BBQ in Fort Mason a year ago I reclined in a portable hammock with a Bud Lite Lime (Shut up. I like them.) with my friends Ali and Becca and watched a group of people about our age across the park dissolve into chaos.

They had arrived at roughly the same time we had but instead of eating hotdogs and peacefully bullshitting or playing frisbee this bunch had apparently had a falling out. Two of the men attempted to fist fight each other while their friends held them back. One of the girls waved her arms frantically.

Jacob wandered over and plucked another beer from the cooler and joined us in watching. One of the men broke free and took a swing at one of the other guys trying to hold him down. He missed and fell to the grass and seemed to begin weeping.

“Looks like their Saturday is going well.” Jacob remarked.

“God I’m glad that never happens to us.” Said Becca as one of the combatants fell on the crying man and they wrestled drunkenly. Another one of the men yanked on the hoodie of the guy on top in an effort to disengage him. One of the girls threw up into a trash can.

Yet despite the enormous amount of class we bring to social gatherings there are two days marked on our calendars where we know and accept that we are going to be those guys.

The first is Bay To Breakers which is an all day annual shitshow and the other is St Patrick’s day.

For the past three years on whatever Saturday falls before St Patties Kovacavich organizes a massive all day pub crawl across a section of San Francisco. On the eve of such an event we steel our selves, nod quietly to one another and grant ourselves and our friends blanket amnesty for whatever sins may be committed this time. I mean for fuck sakes this?

This. Is our logo, generally followed by the words “drunk Irish zombies“. Moderation simply isn’t a thing on these little forays.

We’ve actually been rather tame for the past two years. It’s hard to top that first time though. By about 5 PM our boy Tom had thrown up from the second story bathroom window of Ireland 32’s onto an Irishman, which I believe is seven years good luck if done on St. Patties. To be fair now he only did that because his ass was on the toilet already in the midst of shitting. Who puts an openable window in a pub bathroom stall anyway? After Danny and Ryan managed to pry him out of the stall and dump him into a cab that was when we were invited to leave by a man dressed as the Pope.

By 6:45 I was ejected from a family pizza parlour for loudly and obviously sucking face with a man who had a circus moustache and by 7:00 Peter was in an altercation with a bouncer. An altercation that, at the time seemed best solved by unzipping his pants and asking “Wot? You think you’ve got a big cock? I’ll show you a big cock!”

It’s hard to top that sort of thing and reasonable people normally don’t try to.



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