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ST. PATRICK'S DAY SURVIVAL GUIDE

I'm not going to celebrate St. Patrick's Day this year because I think it's in bad taste to celebrate a Saint who drove all the Japanese out of Ireland considering what's been going on. Don't let me stop you from having a good time, especially all you real Irish out there who are excitedly finishing off the last of their Advent Sausages in anticipation of tomorrow's festivities. Deep down in my heart and in my soul I am a teacher and so despite my apprehension I've compiled some tips and tricks to ensure your St. Patrick's day is safe and fun, like having sex with jean jackets on.

Fashion-wise, don't get all huffy puffy, tearing your wardrobes apart looking for green things. Most Irish people dress in greys, tans and blacks to match their souls. The best part about these colours is that they act as a canvas for the barf you're going to spray all over yourself at some point in the night. I recommend experimenting with different coloured drinks -- a bit of green beer, some black Guiness, and maybe a touch of Purple Leprechaun Explosion would make a fine paint.


Not all Irish love to puke, which is why they eat potatoes all day. Irish people are a lot like ducks in that way, and though many an Irish have eaten stones because they look like Nerds candy, most stick to potatoes to aid in digesting and absorbing their breakfast beers. If you don't grow your own potatoes you can find them at your local grocer in the produce section. Look for potatoes that don't have any cobwebs or blood on them and cook them according to package instructions.

When people get drunk and pretend they're Irish, they tend to have sex with one another even though sex was banned in Ireland in 1987. If you're going to have sex with something do it as the Irish do -- in a government-sanctioned procreation kiosk. Since we don't have any in our country and because I made it up, you might want to try having sex in a bush or maybe even ditch. Just pick some place that's bound to be covered in throw-up for an authentic experience and try out an "Irish Condom" while you're at it -- a Guiness soaked U2 CD booklet tied your dong with sheep intestines.

And from the WIDAHIA vault, here is last year's St. Patrick's Day poem, copied and pasted below for your convenience:

A poem for St. Patrick

Oh you green man, your day is here

When lasses and lads drink purple beer

Haha, you're smart, you caught my lie
Now let's all eat some apple pie

What's that? No pie? Not today?
I don't think I get this holiday

This is the one where people chew
And give small gifts to their nephew

They swat at bees and swim all day
While sisters bake their cassoulets

We all wear ties, even the misses
And each give our legs 100 kisses

Don't give me that look you stupid shit
This is St. Patrick's Day, isn't it?

I guess my parents lied to me
Cause we celebrate with pies and bees

Green beer, dumb hats and leprechauns?
I think I'll pass and head to Don's

My dad and me will kiss some legs
And eat St. Patrick's Easter Eggs

And I can't wait until Christmas Day
When we eat a bear and pretend we're gay

I LIKE ESPIONAGE AND ANYTHING CRISP

Now that my Christmas shopping is all done, I can get an early start on New Year's barfing and Family Day kisses. Liv and I generally like to keep our New Year and Family Day celebrations low key, so we generally combine them on January 27th and just sit around in our pajamas kissing while also barfing into each other's mouths. I usually drink a lot of Coke and eat lots of Rolos beforehand, while she chugs Gatorade and eats chicken wings, so that we each get our favourite kinds of puke. The couple that sprays together, stays together until one of them finds someone normal.

I have to work this week so I won't be telling you about lazy, fun holiday stuff like baking movies and watching cookies. Instead, my week will look and feel like this:

Whoa, check out that highlighter!

You guys know me pretty well by now, but if you don't because you happened upon this post by searching "barf kisses" in Google because that turns you on because your parents neglected you and your best friend was your dirty old dog who barfed all the time, you should know that I'm antsy. I got ants in my pants and an itch in my ditch. Combine that with my love of Christmas and being on holiday and you get one full dude who can't stop shakin' his leg anytime he smells pine boughs or sees a jolly old Sants in the local mall. So what's a boy to do?

My guru, who would like to remain nameless because his name is Lardy Puffsmear, recommended I try to forget about Christmas and instead concentrate on work and extra-curricular activities, while avoiding heavy screaming and extra cheese on things. I immediately got to work on a new political cartoon:


As per usual, I got great coverage, including a sweet spot on the front cover of the New York City News Machine Daily. Unfortunately, most readers were distracted by this month's FunShine Girl:

Mona, 35, was never the same after she returned from outer space. Her breasts started producing fruit punch and she claims she understands what birds keep chirpin' about. She loves to ski and hopes that there's a big technological development in scissors in the next 10 years.

Full disclosure, I was quite taken with Mona myself, and as soon as I was done wiping the sweat from the brow after picturing me and her hand in hand, shopping for jam at the market, I turned the page and saw a full page spread advertising a big Christmas sale -- 50% off all rubber -- and I was right back to being excited.

Last weekend I went to a party that served a whole pig and I also put together a treadmill.