“Congratulations. You’re our first customers today who haven’t come straight to the bar to order Irish car bombs.”
“But…it’s only 12:02.”
“And you guys don’t open til noon.”
“So you’ve only been open for 2 minutes.”
“And there’s no one else here.”
Posted in memoir, nonfiction, other, prose, script
Tagged alcohol, baileys, bartender, beer, brendan behan, car bombs, drunk, guinness, ira, irish car bombs, jamaica plain, jameson, monday, offensive, police, pub, st. patrick's day, terrorism, tip your bartender, whiskey
Ambling sloth-like through the wasteland, breathing in a noxious haze of tryptophan and sickly sweet liquor, I plod past the pestilent pond of porcelain piled high in endless pillars, towards the puddles of putrid fat liquidized and pooling on the plates, once poured steaming over broken bones now dripping down the drain while the last vestiges of flesh hang threadbare off that osseous matter. Small hands have left their mark behind them, stained and sliding down the wall as if grasping for some invisible rungs to rescue them from wrath. Meanwhile, that gelatinous glob of congealed red mass continues to vellicate on the floor, a ceaseless tremor that suggests its sentience. Yet somehow, the empty glass and glasses have survived the slaughter mostly intact, only weathered and worn by overuse though now dirty, discarded and disheveled down among the grateful undead whose virile corpses litter the living room furniture until such time tomorrow that consumption might continue.
Posted in nonfiction, other, poetry, prose
Tagged cousins, cranberry sauce, drunk, family, grandma, holidays, monday, post-apocalypse, Thanksgiving, tryptophan, turkey, wine, Zombies
The crisp, pre-autumnal
scent of perfume, vomit
and underage drinking
wafts through the air
on Huntington Avenue.
Wherefore art thou pants,
sweet maiden? Why dost
thou mate lie incontinent
along the gutters of the bridge
on Massachusetts Avenue?
Cellphone screams, the
clumsy click and clack of
stilettos slice the stillness
of the early morning light
on Commonwealth Avenue.
While I nestle softly in
my bed off Centre Street.
Posted in poetry
Tagged alcohol, boston, boston university, centre street, college, commonwealth avenue, drunk, freshmen, girls, huntington avenue, massachusetts avenue, monday, northeastern university, poetry, september, women
Patriots Day: a holiday unlike any other. Which is especially suspicious when you consider that the rest of the country gets both Veterans Day AND Memorial Day — what’s the difference, besides the season? —but only Massachusetts celebrates Patriots Day. A day in which the state government shuts down, along with most other businesses (including the one by which I am employed), all so that a bunch of Ethiopians can run 26.2 miles and win a million bucks while the rest of us drink mimosas and Bud Light in solo cups on the street.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve been drinking since 11am today, and I’m about to leave for the IRNE Awards, where I will continue to drink even more (my company was nominated for 27 awards!) so you’re probably not going to get a post worth much of a while out of me today. Tune in next week for more (hopefully) sober literature!
Everyone feels the air pulled from the room, from the force of the first blow. I feel every inch of my body reflectively launch itself towards the body with arm mid recoil. You fall back, eyes closed, jaw dislocating, but worry not; because vengeance is already being enacted by the eight pairs of fists that walked in the pub with you.
A lethal combination of alcohol and loyalty will irrupt in a fury of right hooks and rib shots. It doesn’t matter what words were exchanged, who was truly insulted or injured because these are irrelevant now. The only fact that concerns us now is that there be a physical representation of our allegiance to you.
Within moments my ears are ringing with the symphony of shattered glass, fractured ribs, and tables dismantled by the weight of human flesh. There is sweat already burning my eyes, and the strong taste of copper in my mouth. I can’t see whose winning but I’m certain none of us are losing; at least no more than the opposing muscle.
When they finally pull us apart, when we are thrown out of the establishment our middle fingers in the air, you’ll laugh, telling us it was a lousy drink anyway.
…and with that we’ll move on to the next place that will have us.