I took a lot more out of of St. Patrick's Day that it took out of me.
I think. Around dark time, things waxed sinister, people drank various poisons;
the voices of the penatent gargled from the gutters, but still the sinners quaffed.
Things quckly got out of hand; memory fails.

I do, however vaguely, recollect an almost nude woman playing a tuba,
some old guy trying to pay for whiskey with a book of postage stamps, and a huge Somoan
guy in blue spandex who kept slapping me on the back and calling me Lamar, and other wonders.
::
Somewhere around 1:00 a.m. your humble narrator was ejected from somewhere, by someone,
I am almost sure, but the police (I think) allowed
me to go back in and recover my pants. nonplussed, or at least partially plussed,
I carried on somewhere else, I forget just where, with a thick dread hanging over me.
(Insert blackout here)
Fates be praised, though; I awoke back home, don't ask me how, Jeep safely in the driveway, and
several MySpace addresses written in Sharpy on my...er, hand. heh.
Erin go....BLARGH!!
Oh, lordy. Me feels a mite puny.
But this, too, shall pass.