Today is St. Patrick’s Day. And using the helpful information we learned last year, The Space Boner invites you all to join us in making some great memories and then destroying them with alcohol.
Here is your (liver’s) itinerary:
07:55: Wake up. Try and figure out where you are. The closet?
08:00: Time for the typical morning pee as the body tries to cleanse Friday night’s warm up session. Maybe a coffee since you’re up?
08:02: Fuck it. Your brain can’t hurt you when you’re sleeping. Pray you don’t have your usual dream of TLC’s hit “waterfalls”.
11:43: Wake up in a panic and scramble for the bathroom clutching your dong with enough force to crush an apple. The only thing keeping your Friday night from coating your hallway in fresh, hot, piss is your blistering forward momentum.
11:44: You body check the bathroom door causing it to explode into saw dust like a team of Navy Seals breaching Osama’s bed room door. You barely make it with enough time to tear off the shower curtain in your roommates en-suite. He’ll be so grateful you didn’t get any on the floor.
11:47: Still peeing. Pretty sure you’ve broken a world record at this point. Too bad the only witness is your screaming roommate watching you pee in his shower from his toilet. “This experience has only brought us closer!” Isn’t proving to be any consolation to him whatsoever.
11:48: Well great, now you’re out of breath and still drunk. Could this day get ANY worse? Best go get some grub before Hang-o-saurus Rex shows up…
12:15: Can’t decide what to eat so you drive to Burger King, McDonald’s, Subway, Mr. Sub, Panda Hut, and Wendy’s and buy something awful from each place before realizing you really just want a donair.
12:17: Go home and order pizza.
13:01: Maybe a little hair of the dog will make you feel better. This is before you realize that “the dog that bit you” was a mixture of Tequila, Grapefruit Juice, Melon Liqueur and Red Bull; garnished with a slice of watermelon. It is known as “The-Drink-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named.“
13:05: Maybe some actual hair of the dog will help. Too bad you found a bigger dog, this time with rabies… literally. Sure there’s a lot of blood and you probably could use a few stitches and maybe a shot, but you’re pretty sure you won the fight. You may as well drive the dog to the vet… with a 5 iron.
13:30: It’s beer-thirty, so beer it is! Drank, of course, from a bowl since all the glasses are either dirty, broken or full of quarters.
13:45: You now should have regained most of your senses and realized that the shower you peed in earlier was actually your roommate’s bed. This is made funnier considering he was still in it, and that shower curtain you threw back were his sheets. While laughing heartily you go to wake your other roommate to tell him, but remember you locked him out on the patio last night after he lost an argument about who would be the better president of earth: Batman or Superman? (Batman, duh.)
14:00: Three beers down now. Well, best let grumpy ol’ Porchy McSleeperson inside.
14:01: Get into fight. Go to other bathroom and pee into the toilet while having a shower, ohhh this could be irony if you actually knew what that meant. The other roommate has locked his door. You hear sobbing. He must be watching a movie.
14:25: Hmm, must have had one of those mid-walk naps… Loosen belt from neck and exit that posture-killing closet. Your brain must have tried to get forty winks in before you put forty drinks in.
14:42: Six beers gone. Man, you sure showed that dog what was up! Just about drowned those “I am too drunk to drive” jitters.
14:44: Seven beers gone. Time to go to the pub! Maybeeeee I should call a taxi instead. Where’s my purse?
15:22: Arrive at the pub to join all the wannabe, drunken, tough guys pretending to be Irish and spewing horrible accents and green vomit from their mouths. All the while wearing a colour that nobody looks good in.
16:30:All caught up using the time-tested technique of putting a shot of gin in each green beer you hastily quaff. Someone starts singing an Irish drinking song but no one seems to know the words. Spent the last hour bragging about actually being Irish for some reason.
17:00: Start singing a Canadian drinking song, pass it off as Irish; everybody joins in. Green shots seem like a good idea, though pointless since you can no longer see colour.
18:00: Using the pub’s bathroom is now far too inconvenient. You and your bladder decide to christen the new Toyota Prius in the parking lot as your new urinal.
18:02: Oh yeah, and you’ve decided to take up smoking.
20:00: Spent two hours asking people if they wanted to see your “Shelayleeeeee!“
21:04: Your fake Irish accent has become distorted into a hybrid of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Gay Robot.
22:12: The Magic Bus finally came, picked up all the ugly slags and switched them with chicks that you would totally bang. Overhear some guy whining about his Prius smelling like piss.
22:43: Rejected by the girl you’ve been macking on all night long. Turns out that wasn’t a girl, it was a jukebox; save some face by being commended for actually playing good music. Can’t stop the tears though. Play Bruce Cockburn’s’ Lovers In A Dangerous Time 8 times in a row.
23:10: You go and see if the claw machine is dating anybody.
23:28: Argued with a random stranger for 45 minutes about how much wood a woodchuck could chuck if that woodchuck did indeed chuck some wood. You both agree on “A Metric Fuckload.” And then you get into a fight for no reason.
23:59: Everyone seems to know the words to every Irish drinking song now and they are crooned loud and indecipherable as the clock strikes 12 and you strike your head against the bar.
14:40: Wake up… in the fucking closet! You vow to take the shelves out and leave a pillow in there for next time.
14:45: Take your first green dump, and panic until you realize why. Wipe away shamrock poop with eviction notice.
It’s just like Christmas.
Except with people you like…
And the Elves are drunk.