On-in: Dive 75
Scribe: Mary Molly Margaret O’Cockstar
Bless me lucky Jewish charms! Me thinks we all have a bit o’ Irish in us. At least fer a day – when public dr*nkenness is not only ubiquitous, but highly encouraged. Ya know? It reminds me a bit o’ the hash.
Well, if ya ain’t Irish on this Saint Paddy’s Day r*n, then by God, this scribe is going to exercise her poetic license and make Micks out o’ the whole lot o’ ya! The dr*nks who appeared at some point during the afternoon/evening’s festivities included:
The McSpeedy Boys
St.Ewa, patron saint o’ the P.D.A.
Anger Management Seamus
McMeanus McJeanus Kelly
Biddy MasterCard Early (NOT!)
The Archbishop Robert o’ the Crazy Diocese
Heather (Got Wood?) Malloy
Mary Sweeny —sorry luv, yer name’s too good to be changed!
Fire in the McPie Hole
Lesley Go Braugh
St. Peter (ha,ha,ha,ha,ha – that’s Mcfunny!)
Head Up McAss
Wet Connection Connolly
St. Marie Wickam
Dave O’Byrne Brown
This fine group o’ young(ish) lads and lasses gathered in front o’ Saint Paddy’s, huddling together as the wee bits o’ sunshine disappeared from her hallowed steps. Basil explained that the day’s r*n, also known as the Ballymagash, was West Ender slang fer finding the hash. At least, I believe that’s what he said.
T’ wasn’t much green amongst us. St. Marie Wickham donned the best/worst garish green r*nning gear I ever did see. Otherwise, it was the usual dr*nks (Paddy O’Bootycall, Biddy MasterCard Early (NOT!)) who brought green hats fer themselves and others to don. Me likes to think we were r*nnin’ to warm up and catch the sunlight, but no, sadly, when the first mark was called out heading north up
Off we went towards the southern end o’ the Park; into and around the lake, hootin’ and hollerin’ like the bunch o’ thirsty dr*nks we are or aspire to be. The front r*unning bastards were fooled into climbing up and around a huge rock, which let us fat bastards catch up. Funny, don’t t’really remember many checks on this trail, but have it on good infermation that there were some.
Now, a little bird called Wet Connection Connolly, let it slip that the on-in was likely on the UWS, so t’was thrilled when the trail took us out at Tavern on the Green. Sweet Jesus! A short trail?
No. Our semi-green arses then headed west and up Broadway, only to be rudely redirected into the Park back in around 68th Street. That was a clusterfook o’ a circle I tell ya! Then, fer those o’ us who were mor’ interested in drinkin’ beer than r*nning, we were mightily pissed (and, unfertunately, I don’t mean dr*nk), when the trail headed east over to the boat pond. Fer Chrisssakes Basil, bloody hell, give us dr*nks a break!
Again the FRB McSpeedy Boys were seen r*nning haplessly in circles, whilst the rest o’ us short cut up towards
The trail exited the Rambles somewhere around 78th Street and, as I came out o’ the brush, I spotted the loping Ewa (o’ St.Ewa, patron saint o’ the P.D.A.) beginning her second loop around the Park. On-on, I yelled and she replied with some gibberish I have yet to understand. The pack left the Park on
OK, maybe Malachy’s might have been a better choice on such a fine day as this, but me likes Dive 75. If fact, so much so, t’was told I had left there close to that mornin’! The Guiness and Smithwicks flowed as the corned beef and cabbage (Irish for pizza) arrived and the pack gathered round fer the Circle:
The first down-down went to our fearless solo-hare Basil, who downed a second pint fer his absentee co-hare, Cardinal John O’Connor.
Virgins and Visitors a-plenty: Pierre, Clay, Light Me Fart, Fill Me Cavity, Chris, Schweinchen Dick, Diane and Christain. Fer the virgins: “Say farewell to yer virginity.” Fer the visitors: “Now get the fook out of our fair City!”
I might have had me a few too many pints, but the bloke who r*n with his coat on drank twice; once fer trying to evade the virgin down-down and the other – well me thinks you can figure the second one out as I’ve already mentioned the r*nning with a fookin’ coat!
McSpeedy (the Younger) earned his “Happy Birthday F*ck You.” I meeself was called up fer finding a T-shirt bearing me Hash name and wearing it. Ewa o’ the St.Ewa, patron saint o’ the P.D.A. drank out o’ her mighty tidy new shoes fer the 2nd or 3rd time. Got Wood (?) Malloy, can’t ya find any better bloody material?
AOW was deservedly earned by Anger Management Seamus, fer showing up at the start, being a tart little braggart about his “PR” in the race that mornin’ and fer being the stupid bugger who wears the fookin’ race shirt to the hash.
Later that evenin’ Biddy MasterCard Early (NOT) and meeself tried to figure out what Erin Go Braugh meant on her St. Paddy’s Day hat. Flaccido Donegan slurred from across the bar: “It means take yer brar off for