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Published: August 6th 2007
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After ordering a pint of Guinness and one Smirnoff Double Black, Gene skeptically eyed the female bartender who handed souvenir t-shirts over the bar to another male patron. We were wearing our festive shamrock head gear purchased from an Irish specialty store in Sydney and were certain to receive holiday handouts.
“What do I have to do to get a t-shirt?” Gene asked the bartender, feeling cheated.
“You need to buy four pints of Guinness and you’ll receive a free shirt,” she responded.
To me, four pints for a t-shirt seemed more of a swindle than a freebie.
In his most masculine voice, Gene directed, “Then I’ll take three more pints of Guinness and a free Guinness t-shirt.”
As I stood there drinking my Double Black, I imagined Gene’s condition after four pints of Guinness. “Honey, you do know that I don’t drink Guinness, right? How are you going to drink all of those by yourself? You’ll be ready for bed before I’ve even have the chance to doll up for St. Patty’s Day,” I sulked, feeling frumpy in my daytime beach gear.
“You can hand them out in exchange for St. Patty’s Day paraphernalia,”
Gene proudly countered.
“That would sound like a great idea if I was as snookered as the rest of them. Besides, what am I going to do with an oversized t-shirt and a St. Paddy’s Day hat when I already have my own set of leprechaun ears?”
Gene proudly downed another two pints of Guinness before instructing me to pass the fourth to the pathetic drunkard next to me.
“Want a Guinness?” I asked the nearly cross-eyed lad. “We bought four pints for a free t-shirt, but I’m afraid my husband will be snoozing on the bar if he drinks the fourth.” The chap accepted with a nod of the head and oversized smile.
Three pints, however, were clearly enough to put Gene into nap mode because we were quickly headed back to our room for an afternoon siesta.
A few hours later, I was dressed to the nines and ready for a night out on the town. After being rejected at the door of Gilhouly’s because Gene was sporting flip flops, I suggested heading back to our former drinking establishment where the inebriated seemed plentiful.
Shortly after our arrival, we were greeted by
a curly-haired Aussie named Adam who babbled on about how the mate standing behind him had a piss-pour attitude. As I peered over Adam’s shoulder, the guy glared back at me as though he knew that he was the subject of conversation. However, being the busy body that I am, I of course inquired further.
“All I did was tell the guy that he has some bugged-out eyes and he freaked out,” Adam explained. Glancing back at Adam’s victim, I couldn’t overlook his bullfrog appearance.
“Do you even know the guy?” I questioned.
“Naaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”
Looks like I’m dealing with a real winner here. Looking me in the eye, Adam whispered, “You are a legend.” Gene and I chuckled at the not-so-flattering remark as Gene had no reason to feel threatened by the cotton-headed clown.
While Adam claimed to be at the bar with just one other mate, he spoke to each and every person who passed his way, introducing us to his newly-made friends. Before long, we had made acquaintance with a topless hairy Maori Indian, several drunken Aussies, and a 20-year-old German by the name of Paul, who hung with us for the
rest of the night.
Poor Paul, who proclaimed that he wasn’t much of a drinker, was never left empty-handed by his new American friends and was in rare form by the end of the night, dressed in a party hat and t-shirt that I persuaded the bartender to give me for free. After several pints, Paul confessed that it was time for bed and provided his contact information so that we could meet up with him at Oktoberfest in Munich later this year.
Calling it a night ourselves, I cackled at the top of my lungs, shamrocks-a-rockin’ on top of my head, as Gene pushed me full speed down the sidewalk in a stray shopping cart.
God bless the Irish!
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krankberg
non-member comment
Facism
That Paul guy looks like a real Nazi. Glad to see Gene is still a pussy and can't drink more than 3 beers without napping.