My Trip To Ireland.

Much like leprechauns, women like this were amiss in Ireland.

Apparently Ireland is no home to leprechauns.

This was the painful discovery I made in my travels there years ago. I found none. It was leprechaun-free. I know.

We were grossly misinformed.

In the long-long ago, my company dispatched me to Ireland.

I befriended two individuals working there. We established a wonderful friendship that I cherish to this very day. I totally forget their names. One guy, I think, was named Seamus and the other, maybe Dolan. Hmm. Wait. Maybe it’s—Whatever.

Seamus and Dolan.

On my first day, I asked Dolan why there were no leprechauns in Ireland. I told him that when my plane touched down, I expected to see a leprechaun on an ostrich battling a magician on a rhino in a UFC showdown. He stared at me blankly, blinked, and said ‘ay’.

Then we went to the pub.

I remember it being a Tuesday. A Tuesday. Perhaps Five. The pub was homely and wooden, and sat by the River Shannon. Our village-town was Limerick. This was hardcore Ireland. Not some poopy-doopy tourist town where people are nice and sell you maps and French fries in newspapers with mayonnaise. No tourist visited Limerick. They drove around it. And when I walked into this pub, I knew why. The raw undercurrent of Irish society met here: from the blue-collared labourer to the farmhands of the peat.

And now a severely obese guy.  From the new world.

“’Ave a coupla pints with the lads,” Seamus handed me a Guinness. “We don’t eat our dinners, we fekkin’ drink’em.”

Fekkin’ Ay, I said in my mind. I couldn’t say that aloud, because then I would sound like a complete nerd.

“So you’re American, is it?”

They said “is it?” a lot after all of their questions.  Hilarious!

Let’s forward the story 5 Guinnesses ahead.

I’m loaded. I know it’s still Tuesday. I think it’s 10. We’re now above the homely pub into what looks like a loft pub. It’s Limerick’s disco. As many of you know, I’m not a clubber, but this, this was okay. It allowed me to engage young Irish ladies with dialogue and exchange pleasant discourse. We debated leprechauns.

Oh, and the lads taught me a new Irish phrase.

A promiscuous young lady is referred to as a, “trout-faced slappa’.” Apparently, many of Seamus and Dolan’s ex girlfriends were of this category.

I also learned that the Irish can drink. Like really, super incredibly drink. Like holy poopy-pants, I think you might die if you drink more, drink. They were on their fourteenth pint, while I was on pint 6.

I know! That’s like 9 more than me.

Ireland's Minister of Foreign Affairs

On their fifteenth pint, Seamus told us, including the young ladies we had befriended, that he can dip his arse in the River Shannon. I said, “oh no way?” I think he thought those were fightin’ words, because he said he would do it right now.

Dip his arse. In the River Shannon.

He went to the window of this loft pub, threw his limbs out and grabbed a very large gutter pipe. Then he shimmy-shammed down this exterior tubing to the ground.

I alerted him that there were doors and stairs he could use to expedite his journey, but I was called a fekkin’ arse.

No matter, he was now dipping his arse in the River Shannon. Briefly, of course, because he toppled backward in the water. Then he emerged again, completely drenched. He came back to the pub door, yelled at the doormen labelling both of them “fekhole boggers”, then walked up stairs, drenched still, and alerted several young ladies that they were “uppity shites.”

The girls were impressed. The lads bought him a pint and toasted his success. Impressed as well, I ordered a shot of Jagermeister for him. But when I handed it over, he waved it off.

“No lad, can’t drink Jager.” I stopped.

“Makes me do some fekked up shite.”

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