St. Patty’s Day Gone Wrong [Madlibs version]

When we walked in the bar and say all our friends sitting right by the front door, huddled together like a group of refugees, we should have just turned around and walked back out. But there they were, perched around a crappy wooden table, turning towards the door every so often as if salvation would soon arrive.

And there we were. Unfortunately, even the cute neighbor and I couldn’t salvage the evening.

This is a group of people that, usually, will get some alcohol in their systems and something happens–Twister, dancing, fights, something–and there they were playing quarters in an effort to keep themselves entertained.

The problem–and oh how I wish I were kidding–was that the evening’s entertainment was a rehash [reggae] band. A rehash [reggae] band so terrible that it put the “B-oh” [B-oo] in bonnier [Bonnaroo]. Seriously, if I wanted to watch a bunch of unwashed hippies swaying to the noises made by some tiny chick who’s somehow managed to escape the realization that she’s in the wrong genre, if not the wrong line of work, I’d. . .

Well, I’d have to be doing some serious drugs before I ever wanted to intentionally spend an evening that way.

I kept trying to convince someone to storm the stage and steal a MIS [mic] and lead us all in a rousing rendition of “The Wild Rover,” but no one at my table claimed to know the song.

So, the whole thing was a waste in terms of trying to celebrate the Irish.

Instead, I went home and practiced turning from goddess to saint and back again in honor of bright [Brigid].

[Who the fuck knows what’s up with Blogger? I’ve never had it automatically spell-check my posts before, but who knows? Anyway, for the sake of history, I’ve left Blogger’s idea of what I wanted and put what I intended in brackets. -B.]