WEST BOSTON
IRISH DRUNKARDS SOCIETY
UPHOLDING THE STEREOTYPE SINCE 2006 One unlucky night about two years ago, I was sitting at the bar in a Pizzeria Uno, chewing-up a Veggie Lover's Personal Pan Pizza, nursing a Diet Coke and staring at a Red Sox game. I was not harming anyone and no one had any right to harm me, but life is unfair, especially when it is under the influence of beer.
Right around the seventh-inning stretch, four large, noisy, pink-faced yayhoos came stumbling in and made straight for the bar. Alas, there was only one empty stool, and it was next to me. All four of them lunged for it, upsetting my Diet Coke, which landed in my Veggie Lover's Personal Pan Pizza, drowning all of the Lovable Veggies. The four thugs immediately convened a surprisingly formal meeting and voted to make restitution for the pizza on one condition: I would have to abandon the Diet Coke - not just that night, but forever - and switch to Sam Adams. I didn't want to do it, but I was still hungry, so I acquiesced.
I don't remember much about what happened next, except that sometime during the evening, an even more surprisingly formal meeting was called to consider whether or not I should be allowed to join their fraternal organization, The West Boston Irish Drunkards Society. Horrified, I howled that it was past my bedtime and I wanted to go home, but a scary voice barked at me to put a fackin' sock in it.
Through a thick, beery haze, I heard them discussing the deplorable fact that I was not Irish, which might, arguably, disqualify me from membership. Alas for me, this impediment was set aside on the dubious grounds that "a Jew is basically an Irishman, with the tip of his shelaleigh sawed-off." If you do not understand this joke, please don't think about it very hard, as it is not exactly true and not exactly funny.
The second problem - that I was not yet a drunkard and did not, at that time, see any advantage in becoming one - was likewise set aside, because, to their way of thinking, it was sure to change.
Let me be blunt: That was the most catastrophic night of my life, the night that sent me floating off to hell on a river of beer, which, now that I think about it, is not the worst way to go, especially if you're going to go to hell anyway, which I certainly was, even before I fell in with the Drunkards. Moreover, it is a great consolation to me that when I'm down there, boiling in a vat of ale, four Irish Drunkards will be boiling alongside of me.
Anyway, the point is: The sole redeeming characteristic of the WBIDS was that we harmed no one but ourselves - until now.
One of our Deputy Toastmasters (we are all Deputy Toastmasters) is a buffoon whom we like to call NickFitz, because he smokes like an alcoholic when you set him on fire ["nic fits"] and because that is nearly his actual name. Incredibly - horrifyingly - NickFitz has. . . I cannot bring myself to type it . . .
Fitz has hypnotized a bright and beautiful Irish lassie into MARRYING his fat ass!
We have done all we can do to bring lovely Jennie to her senses - I even proposed to her myself - but she is determined to throw her life away. So we called an emergency meeting, without Fitz, to decide what to do.
A motion was made and seconded to wait for Fitz to fall into one of his inevetible alcoholic stupors during the next Red Sox game, and then smother him with a pillow. This motion was tabled because, where would we get a pillow?
A second motion was made, and seconded by all, to give the match our unqualified blessing, and, moreover, to give our love to Fitz, who, despite his many, many, many shortcomings, is as fine and loyal a friend as any of us ever hope to call our own. Also, to give an equal measure of love to Little Jen, his sweet and beautiful dove, and to express our fervent hope that she will beat him mercilessly over the head with a shelaleigh, or a broomstick, or a fire extinguisher, or whatever comes to hand, if he ever forgets who's boss.
This motion was carried unanimously and, of course, we sealed it by singing a chorus of the appropriate olde Irish ballad, which we here present to Big Nick and his Heart's Delight.
OH, LET EVERY LAD LINK WITH HIS LASS
BLUE JACKET AND WHITE TROUSERS
AND LET EVERY LASS LINK WITH HER LAD
BLUE PETTICOAT AND WHITE FLOWERS
CASKS AND FLAGONS OF LOVE from Mike, TeaKay, Brian and
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