* AsterisKS Magazine

“God invented whiskey to keep the Irish from ruling the world.” — Ed McMahon

“O’Malley, you RAT BASTARD!” I screamed.

The day started out innocently enough. I received a call from O’Malley encouraging me to join him at the fake Irish pub down the way. He hated the place, but the signs saying “Kiss me I’m Irish” were as close to home as he could get. O’Malley is a stout man and 70 years old. His parents came to our county in the 1940’s. His story is just like one Frank McCourt could have written, although less comedic and romantic. O’Malley has the stereotypical accent and bulbous nose. He carries some stupid stick he found in his yard and claims it’s his lucky shillaly from the old country. Small children and aging housewives love his embellished stories of leprechauns and rainbows. And the grand thing is, the more O’Malley drinks, the better his stories get.

The awful thing about O’Malley is though, after the women and children are gone, the ugly side of Irish drinking comes about. And having spent enough drunken nights with him, I knew that this night was going to get especially hideous. “Another round of Beamish” he barks at the waitress. She reminded him all they serve is Guinness here. That just made him angry. “It’s girlie drink you wretched beer slinging harpy.” I slipped her a ten and told her to ignore him. She stormed off and told me if he got any more abusive she would throw us out and call the police.

“O’Malley, you drunken Irish fool. We need to leave. You are going to get us thrown out of here and in jail.” He just laughed and threw peanut hulls at the businessman drinking coffee.

“You want to fight me you tie-wearing Nancy boy?!” Luckily, the business man knew O’Malley well enough to not talk back. He paid for his beer and tipped his fedora good luck to me. “I ought to kill the smug bastard for that.” He poured us another round.
About one minute after that little exchange, in walked three kids from the local junior college. They were burly youths wearing letter jackets. “Kiss my Irish arse you uppity queery pups. How about I kick your teeth down your throat?” It was then I began to ponder my life and why I indulge in such dangerous pastimes such as drinking with old men in fake Irish bars. I must admit there is a certain sense of glamour to my job, covering the bar scene and on occasion drinking with community socialites. Tonight though, this is the unpleasant side of my career, hanging out with crotchety old drunks who carry stupid shillaly sticks and taunt bar servers and make politically incorrect cracks at college kids who are three times the size of us.

It’s all wrong. I need to leave. I need to go home to my own bed and watch TV like a normal person. I need to be there now, screaming out the answers to the puzzles Pat Sajak throws at me. I don’t want to be here Pat Sajak. I want to be with you, solving puzzles for the win. Rat bastards!

I’m brought out of my daydreams of a living a typical life by the sound of a drunken angry college kid yelling at me to control my idiotic grandfather. It was then I decided to, as Mr. Burns would say, “Release the hounds.” I did this though by offering them a friendly game of darts.

This was an especially dangerous move on my part for several different reasons. It was 11 p.m. We had been there since 3 p.m. O’Malley is in the red zone drunk. He’s hit the level rarely seen by most mortal men his age (or any other for that matter). This added to the fact that he hates just about everyone. And really hates burly college kids with letter jackets. And then he really hates burly college kids with letter jackets and big mouths. And he hates darts. “Drink up, Alice, I’m buying,” he said to one of the endangered youths. They sat down and O’Malley started buying. Round after round. Dart throw after dart throw. We drank. I started to lose track of things. Time had no meaning. Where was I? Dammit! Where the frick is that Pat Sajak! Buy a vowel you rat bastard! I’d thought I would close my eyes for just a minute. Just get a second of peace in my scrambled brains. That’s when I heard the screams.

“O’Malley, you and your drunken lackey get your asses outta here!” the bar server lady girl yelled. “Get out or I am calling the friggen’ cops. Who in the hell is going to clean up this place up!? OUT!”

I woke up from what seemed like 10 seconds of rest and the whole place was in shambles. Broken glass and violence. Screams and teeth gnashing. One of the college kids vomiting in the corner while another was holding his testicles and moaning in pain. The largest one lay flat on the floor jabbering incoherently with a plastic dart sticking in his forehead. “O’Malley, you RAT BASTARD!” I screamed.

If you’re enough lucky to be Irish…
You’re lucky enough!
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

*If anyone reading this piece is offended by my depiction of the drunken Irish rat bastard O’Malley, please take note: My mother’s maiden name is Sagerty. So go feck yourself.