My Fellow Honkies Acquitted Ourselves Well Yesterday

I spent Saturday at the tamest possible version of the St. Patrick’s Day festivities: the kids’ room at a local “heritage” festival.

Where people were drunk-yelling along with the Dropkick Murphys at 1 p.m. and a dude spilled an entire beer on his 6-ish-year-old’s head while in a wee babby mosh pit during “Michael Finnegan.” I can’t blame him. That’s an absolute banger, all 47 verses.

We refer to this weekend as Amateur Night in Chicago for a reason: 

5:36PM — “A highly intoxicated white male wearing a large styrofoam sombrero” is lying down in the middle of Grand and State.

Never change, my weak-livered brothers. Never change.

A.

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