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My potential jail-time aside—like the soil in a potato famine, the girls did not produce the goods. The drinking part, however, was nice and Irish-Catholic-y. So I’m at Tin Roof and I'm piled with green like Bernie Madoff’s secret safe (How bad does Madoff wish he could use the “leprechaun took it” excuse?). Sure, I'm drunk, but nothing outside of the bounds of normal St. Patty’s Day fun. And all of the sudden, this bouncer approaches me and tells me I’ve had enough and that I need to get rid of my beer. Now I am a big believer in non-violence, but I’ll bet the $1.10 left in my checking account that Martin Luther King, Jr. would’ve done exactly what I did, which was give the bouncer a dead arm for not wearing green. He deserved it! I wasn’t falling over like he thought I was, I was just dancing! (To be fair, my go-to dance move does look uncannily similar to a drunk man who has lost control of all motor functions). There were guys in the very same bar that could hardly stand up—and they were actually trying to stand, not dance—but I was singled out! The injustice! The horror! What happened to me was despicable. I demand that bouncers cease from what I will now proudly coin “drunk profiling”. Yes, I understand that the safety of the bar depends on keeping its patrons under control. And I think I speak for drunkies everywhere when I say we realize that we must sometimes sacrifice blacked-outness to serve the greater good. For example, I could buy a six-pack of PBR tall boys for the same cost of 1 beer at the bar (how awesome is PBR?!) and sit outside the Mapco getting wasted before I show up at the bar. But I don't, because drinking alone is not socially acceptable nor mentally healthy. But when my BAC (that’s “blood alcohol content” for all you acronymic laymen (which means those who are not schooled in abbreviations made up of the first letters of each word in the thing it is abbreviating (which means—no I think most people will probably understand now))), right where were we, oh yes: But when it is assumed that my BAC is a threat to the bar based on the awkwardness of my dance moves and the ugliness of the girls I’m hitting on, well, that’s just wrong. I'll tell you what I won't do at this juncture: I wont make a comparison to racial profiling, thereby bringing up what I'm obviously parodying, which would disrupt this vivid, continuous ride of hilarity you're on right now. What's that? I did make the comparison? Vivid dream broken? You sneaky, trickster leprechaun. You got me again... Well now that the leprechaun is out of the pot, and the gold of this article tarnished, I can make my closing point about profiling. I thought that I would never truly be able to empathize with my profiled brothas’. But now I can. So, Arabs and Indians and less-so-black-guys-but-enough-that-you-can-be-considered-a-profiled-minority: I now know how you feel. |
On Tuesday, I engaged in the usual St. Patty’s Day cavorting, which involved copious drinking and copious wishing girls would take off their shirts for green beads. This is the holiday where you do that right? Right...? Oh god....