Mayor Emanuel walks in Saturday's St. Patrick's Day parade. (Brian Cassella/Tribune )
Oh, hello there.
Wait, what am I doing in this paper?
You'll have to excuse me: I participated in an Irish-American festival this past weekend called the Feast of St. Patrick, so named for one of the patron saints of Ireland, but generally also a secular celebration of Irish culture and heritage. I'm a little foggy on the rest of the details.
Oh, is that my picture to left there? Wow! What do you know. Was that taken during 1997's sweatiest high school dance? Is that an undershirt? Perhaps. It's best not to inquire.
You see, one of the ways in which this day is celebrated is by imbibing moderate quantities of malted beverages produced by the saccharification of starch and fermentation of the sugar. These beverages contain small amounts of alcohol, which initially can produce feelings of euphoria, but may result in slurred speech, impairment of balance and—it appears—waking up with the remnants of three burritos and an organizational chart for an orgy with 17 of 25 positions checked off.
So wait, what is this paper? A man wrote to me Sunday night asking for 525 words on an irreverent or timely topic, and while I was certainly happy to oblige, this publication probably should screen its potential contributors with a bit more rigor. From what I can piece together, I spent all of Saturday collecting new numbers for my cellular device, most of which feature a first name followed by a deviant activity. A guy who programs a number for "Merlyn Handie Bathroom" into his phone is hardly the kind of character you want appearing in your newspaper, if you ask me—what with the state of the print industry these days.
So you'll have to forgive me because one of the side effects of alcohol overconsumption is similar to anterograde amnesia, which means whomever this stillborn fetus preserved in a jar of formaldehyde for medical science purposes belongs to will probably just have to get another one.
Also, I believe I may owe apologies to my friend BooDaddy, who may have had to throw me out of his bar; my friend Margo, whose phone number I wrote in every bathroom of the city; actor and comedian Vince Vaughn; a young lady whose green beer I poured onto a dog's face because it was looking at me hinky; the dog; and the owner of a box of knock-off Rolex watches. However, a number of people may also owe me an apology, especially whoever managed this rather impressive rendering of the male genitalia drawn to depict it copulating with my own genitalia. Although, I admit, that is quite the impressive Feast of St. Patrick hijinks.
What I'm saying—now that I have this amazing new platform to engage with the city of Chicago on a variety of topics—is that the Feast of St. Patrick is a fun and festive day, which should be celebrated with joy, gladness and even a hint of spontaneity.
Now, would someone go find out if Sedgwick's has a security camera? I may need to get the footage subpoenaed for a paternity suit. I'm almost positive you can't get someone pregnant from what happened in its bathroom.
RedEye special contributor Stephen Markley is the author of "The Great Dysmorphia" and "Publish This Book."
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