As an inexperienced 20-year-old, the first green beer I ever drank was at the boisterous Unicorn Pub. The emerald-tinted draught was skunky, flat, and lukewarm, but it didn’t stop me from choking it back. At the pint of no return, that beer came up the same colour it went down.
If ever there was a suds-swilling holiday, St. Paddy’s Day is it. I’d break into a spontaneous jig whenever the Irish Rovers dropped the beat. Copious amounts of Irish whiskey, Guinness, and three or four six packs…I don’t know, inevitably resulted in dry mouth, headache, spinners, and Dublin vision.
Gettin’ lucky was more titillating way back when. Now I count myself blessed. Not leprechaun lucky, but overall, I win more than I lose. Dad was a card carrying, four-leaf clover holder. He survived a fiery plane crash, multiple perilous surgeries, and won every raffle and draw he entered.
Speaking of leprechauns, I’ve been known to shake down a few for their pot…at the end of the rainbow. Those wee lads really love the green, if you know what I mean. Their magically delicious herb ensured we’d be shamrockin’ in the house tonight, and that’s worth its weight in gold.
Making a classic Irish exit, I’d slip out before last call. Kilt-y as charged. With my head lolling out the cab window, I’d fondly look back on a night I’d barely remember with friends I’ll never forget. Oh my Guinness, wasn’t that a party!
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