"The Wedding Roast and Irish History"

If I ever get married, I have decided that instead of the whole stupid "Bachelor Party" thing in Las Vegas with the toothless stripper who has heroin track marks and excessive drinking, I'd rather have a roast done in my honor. I'd like my friends Troy, Geoff, Jeff, Cory, Chuck and anybody else they can find to come up and share an oft-times alcohol-inspired story or two of my time with them. Of course, Geoff would have the funniest stories out of all of them, including our drunken attempts with Chuck at beat-box beatnik poetry. Ah, the memories... getting drunk at a kindergarten playground and discussing deep things, like why the bus is always early or late, but never on time... and when the bus does get there, no matter how late, the bus driver always decides that it's time for a smoke break when he/she should be doing their job. Or, how about the time that we were in Geoff's car and I let a burp rip that was so foul, we both almost jumped out of a moving car? Ah, those were the days...
Of course, there will be the occasionally embarrassing story that will start off, "There was this one time when Todd got really drunk, and... (fill in sad, drunken anecdotes here)" Oh boy, now that I think about it, my friends have lots of stories like that from around my 21st birthday on. You see, I never really drank that often until around the time that I turned 21, so, let's just say that I... made up for lost time. In fact, I have heard stories about me doing certain things when I was really drunk that I don't remember, not because I blacked out, but because I wasn't there! And it's a sad day when someone can make up a story about you doing this or that with you being drunk, and even your own friends believe it!
For instance, I remember this one time when I was at the Tipsy Bull in Lancaster, and it was St. Patrick's Day. There was this older Irish couple from Boston that used to go there and hang out with their friends, and I would, from time to time, join them for a couple of drinks. This time, I stayed until about 11:30 pm and sang along to some of the old Irish standards, such as, "Oh Danny Boy" and "Turaluralura" and had a merry old time. Sure, I'm not that great of a singer, but that's the point of having bar songs... it's more about yelling along than actual singing along. Anyway, I had a good time, went home and went to sleep. The next day I was hanging out with a friend of the old couple from Boston, and he asked if anything was bothering me the night before, and I said no. I asked him why he would ask me that, and he said that Thomas (the husband) said that last night I was crying at the bar. I almost crapped my pants, I laughed so hard. I told him that is the stupidest thing I've ever heard... maybe it was all the booze coursing through Thomas' system that brought on that memory than actual reality. He kind of chuckled at the thought of it too, me rocking back and forth, holding a mug of frosty beer and sobbing while singing along to music. I like Irish folk songs, but not that much...
And to wrap up this little piece of ridiculous mamma-jamma, I have a couple of final thoughts on St. Patrick's Day. First off, St. Paddy's Day isn't even an Irish holiday... it's an American holiday. Secondly, St. Patrick wasn't even Irish, he was an English-Roman who was kidnapped by a group of Irish slavers. Sure, he was owned by an Irishman, and was a shepherd for a couple of years... but that doesn't make him Irish. He supposedly got a tip from God on how to get back to England, and once he did, he found that he didn't like it. So, he became a monk and then went back to the land of Erin and helped to found many of the monasteries there, and apparently performed a couple of miracles. And finally, if it's St. Paddy's Day and you feel the urge to wear the color Green and decide that you're Irish for the day... don't. Irish people deserve the one day a year where we can celebrate in our own, quirky, intoxicated way without seeing Italians, Germans and Mexicans assimilating it for their own amusement. And please... no fucking bagpipes, alright?! That's the instrument of the Scots, for crying out loud! Get your stereotypes down before you use them in public... and that's all from me. Have a good one...