Bite me, I'm American

St. Patrick’s Day. What a rubbish holiday. Nationwide, millions of people without a trace of Irish blood are donning their green apparel, complete with furry green stovepipe hats and glasses the size of Mario Williams’ new rims, and getting trashed to levels that would make even Ulysses S. Grant blush. It’s a good thing 2012 is a leap year, because this is an utter waste of a day.

So in honor of the occasion, I thought it best to violently rip the cap off a bottle of Harpoon Celtic Ale, an “Irish style red”. Why Harpoon? Hey, the company dragged me out on a job application for three months, asked me to drive 800 miles round trip to work a festival with them, then decided they liked some other guy better. So as long as I’m already angry at everyone and everything, why not dredge up more bad memories?

Speaking of which, everybody knows that beers like this need to be poured, so out comes the Celtic Fling and Highland Games pint glass that I got on one of my first dates with my ex girlfriend. What could be more appropriate for this beer than the glass I got with the woman who, like Harpoon, strung me along for months before finally deciding – and only acknowledging after my prodding – that it just wasn’t working out? It’s perfect!!

Poured out, the beer strikes an immediate resemblance to my failed relationship. It’s kind of a looker, but there isn’t really any head. The smell? Deceivingly nice, but nothing truly noteworthy. Bubbles rise from the bottom of the glass like bile to my throat.

Then I sip it. Bitter. Go figure. But there’s something else. It’s almost…salty? Oh, the lack of head is understandable now – what fluffy foam may have existed has been broken by the tears of a man with shattered dreams and an angry heart.

There’s probably more to the taste than that, but I’m not taking the time to bother with it. I’m sucking down the contents of the glass so fast that it barely even touches my tongue. The sooner the glass is empty, the sooner I can fill it again. And again. And again. And only then, when my woes start to fade, can I put aside my differences and join the revelers in their St. Patricks Day celebrations. Or pass out in the corner, curled up in the fetal position and crying into my stuffed Lucky the Leprechaun.