Beannachtam na Feile Padraig! Part Two

*** Coarse and Objectionable Language Warning ***
If you're easily offended, I wouldn't read past this line if I were you.
If you do, you accept full responsibility for your actions (a new concept in this society), and as such, I will NOT apologize for any offense you may take.

Just got back from Tavern, and I'm still thirsty. Lucky for me, I still have a bottle or two of beer in the fridge.

As much as I love Erdinger Dunkel (an excellent dark Bavarian WeiƟbier), it's not the same as a nice, thick, creamy Guinness. But hey, any port in a storm, eh?

Me an' Fry left Tavern United at 8pm. Ordinarily, I could have gone another hour or two before even THINKING about heading home, but I had to get out of there. Some dolt at the table across the aisle from us ordered his first Guinness ever. The kid, probably about nineteen years old and decked out in the requisite baseball cap and jeans, took a swig and loudly proclaimed "Wow, this Irish beer sucks!".

My blood began to boil.

He followed it up with "I thought this shit was supposed to be good?"

Suddenly, the tavern stood still - frozen in time - and I found myself in the deeper recesses of my mind. The darkest corner, where the three main portions of my ancestry were seated at a booth.

They beckoned me over.

"Room for one more, me lad," smiled my Irish side, making room on the bench and sliding a pint my way.

"Yeah," laughed my Metis side, "join da fockin' party, eh!"

My English side smiled, as though welcoming an old friend.

"CJ," my English side started, "we know what you're thinking."

"Oh?" I asked, "and what is that?"

"Ya wanna go over dere and beat the shit outta that little focker!", my Metis side explained.

"Yeh, and rightly so!" proclaimed the Irish side, "The li'l maggot wouldn't know good beer if ye smashed a bottle of it over 'is 'ead!"

I laughed, "Guilty as charged!"

"Well, don't do it," said my English side.

"Huh?" my Irish side, Metis side, and myself exclaimed.

"He's a young kid with no life experience, still very ignorant about the world... and frankly doesn't look very intelligent, either..." explained English, "You have to ask yourself if he's really worth the effort, or potential legal trouble for that matter, to avenge your favourite beer."

"Easy for you to say!" Irish screamed, "It's not your beer he's insulted! Oh no, it's not like he said anything like 'Oh, that Boddington's tastes like horse piss', now did he? Nooo. What would ye have done then? Just stood there and taken it with yer 'stiff upper lip'? No! You'da gone an' batted 'im round the ear 'ole! So spare us this pansy 'Don't do it' crap just 'coz you've got the majority of 'is ancestry."

"Oh please," said English, his tone becoming more and more annoyed, "spare me this 'majority' crap. He's got your temper!"

"And yer red hair!' laughed Metis.

"Oh shut it, half-breed!" Irish screamed, turning a lovely shade of purple, "At least we know what good beer is, not that Lucky crap you suck back!"

Metis stood up and screamed, "You wanna go?!", motioning for Irish to stand up. Irish obliged.

English got up from the booth and separated them, pushing Irish slightly back.

"Oh, yer takin his side, are ye?" Irish said suspiciously to English, "Just 'coz he's half English and half Ojibwa? Feckin' limeys stickin' together!"

"Who you callin' a half-breed, ya Loyalist Prod mothafucker?" yelled Metis, trying to get at Irish through English, "The only reason you got red hair is 'coz da fuckin' Vikings raped yer great-great-great-grandma! And from what I hear, she wasn't really that fuckin' great!"

At which point, all Hell broke loose.

I sat back and watched in sheer terror as my inner being fought it out. I couldn't tell who threw the first punch, but the descent into chaos was rapid and complete. Glassware was broken, cutlery flew all about, beer was spilled, there was glass everywhere... when all was said and done, our table was reduced to splinters.

After what seemed an eternity, the three amigos stood up, wiped the dust, glass, and blood from each other, let out a hearty cacophony of laughter, and fell into a group hug. We had our happy camaraderie again.

"Same time next week, lads?" asked English. The others laughed their hearty approval.

"Hey bro," Metis said to me, "You'd better get back, Fry's looking for you!"

Next thing I knew, I was back at Tavern United, with Fry staring incredulously.

"Did you hear that?" he asked.

"Yeah, I did," I replied.

"I'm surprised you didn't get up and kill the guy!" he said.

"I wanted to," I explained, "but, well, he's a young kid with no life experience, still very ignorant about the world... and frankly doesn't look very intelligent, either... not worth the effort."

"I'm impressed", Fry said.

"Sometimes you have to listen to those little voices in your head," I laughed.

Dysfunctional though they may be.

Sometimes beer is cheaper than therapy.

Or a lawyer.


  1. CJ,

    Good romp, but I have to side with one your splits. "Lucky' is everything a good drunk should be: simple, unpretentious, workmanlike, straightforward, blunt and cheap!


  2. I honestly don't mind the stuff, and find the "welfare beer" stigma that goes hand-in-hand with the beer to be quite unfair.

    That said, it's not something that'd be in my regular routine...


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