This post marks the first in what is sure to be many in a series I am calling "Drinking With Ricky." And by "many in a series," I mean that I'll probably do spots like this somewhere between zero and a hundred more times. Could be anything, really. The idea here is to give people a first hand look at some of Boston's better drinking events by providing something of a running journal of the event. Today's installment, Drinking With Ricky: Southie's St. Patrick's Day Parade, gives all of you not fortunate enough to be there yourself a look at the shit storm that was yesterday morning/day/afternoon.
8:56 am: My brother, who hasn't woken up before noon since high school, is bouncing around the apartment like an eight year who just snorted a pixi stick. I'm in bed, not really feeling it. Was out day drinking for the games yesterday/last night. Don't know if I'm up for the parade.
8:59 am: Fuck it, I'm ready for the parade. A college budy of mine is having a party at his place on East Broadway. Perfect. I's on.
9:15 am: Run over to the gym for a quick workout. No, not to stem off the effects of a day of drinking whatever I can find and eating pizza from Alfredo's until I fall down. Have you ever drank right after a workout? Best kind of drunk. That's science.
10:48 am: Showered up. Make a run to the liquor store. Not open until noon. That won't do, can't show up to a party empty handed. There's gotta be something in my fridge. I was right. Fill up a Whole Foods bag with a sixer of PBR, three Busch Lights, one Bud Heavy, four Sam Irish Reds, and two Twisted Teas. Off to Southie. Boom.
12:20 pm: Finally make it to the party. Not exactly a rager yet, but the potential was there. Two kegs, two handles of Jameson, and a table that could handle about four hundred flip cup players. Things are looking good. My Whole Foods bag of goodies goes over well. In somewhat of an upset, the Busch Lights went pretty quick. I'm pretty sure that the Bud Heavy was immediately used as a door stop. I started with the PBR's. Three tall boys later, I was on the beruit table.
1:18 pm: Just lost three games in a row. That's a new low.
2:00 pm: The parade is an hour in. It's nice outside, so I decide to check it out. Three feet out the door a Storm Trooper throws a green necklace at me. Didn't see it coming. Hits me in the neck. I cough and drop my beer on a girl. She's not pumped. She calls me a dick. I just start yelling, "kill yourself, just fucking kill yourself." In hindsight, that may have been an overreaction.
2:11 pm: A dude throws up on the sidewalk. The chick who I told to kill herself starts yelling at him, "kill yourself, just fucking kill yourself." She turns back and says to me "fuck yeah!" Good.
2:19 pm: She and I just got destroyed on the beruit table and she tells me to kill myself.
3:30 pm: I'm hungry. I go to the kitchen. There are five cupcakes, two regular pancakes that were made five hours ago and are now in a cereal bowl, and five other pancakes that are for some reason pink, and are in a different cereal bowl. I eat all of it. Believe it or not, I don't regret any of that.
4:05 pm: Some tall dude comes up to me insisting that he give me money for the kegs. Mind you, it's not my party and I haven't thrown in any money for the kegs. I'm about to say, "don't worry about it dude, I'm just here for the party like you are." I don't say that. Rather, I go with "like $5 will be awesome." Score.
5:00 pm: Flip cup time. Dudes vs. Chicks, obviously. We win the first few games easily. Then the chicks start mounting a comeback. Like the seasoned vets we were, we don't bat an eye. We just keep playing until we're done, and then celebrate like we just won the fucking World Cup. The girls are so confused that they start to think that we actually won. Mind fuck achieved. Dudes a million, chicks zero.
5:45 pm: Time to get the shit out of there. My brother shows up with his crew. We go outside to get a cab. Surprise, no cabs. But then a short bus starts rolling down the street, blasting top-40 music like it's going out of style. Driver opens the door and says, "goin' Boston?, $10 each, round up, round up!" Confused and drunk, I say we'll give him $7 or call the cops. Yeah, I know that doesn't make any sense, but it was my move at the time. He shakes his head and starts to shut the door. I throw my leg in there, figuring that would slow him down. He kept driving. I take a digger. I'm a little confused. But he stops again, we get on the bus. I don't really know what happened, but I'm on the bus. He starts blasting "Fuck You." Everyone is singing. But the song keeps skipping. Doesn't slow us down. We just keep yelling "FUCK YOU" like it's our job. A dad with his young daughter tell us to stop. I did not see him until then. That's what he gets for hopping on a gypsy bus. The bus drops off somewhere in the North End. I live in Fenway. I have a ways to go. I stumble around looking for a cab. Again, no cabs. Green Line time. Gross.
6:10: Finally catch a E train to get me to the Symphony stop. Golden. I sit down next to an old Asian women who immediately gets up when I sit down. Good call out of her. The odds on me puking on her were even. Jokes on her though, didn't puke AT ALL! Make my stop. Go to Whole Foods. Buy ice cream and a coffee cake. Eat them both when I get home. Pass out. Wake up 14 hours later and go to work. No shower. Championship.
Happy St. Patrick's Day kids. Until next time, this was drinking with Ricky.
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