It occurred to me that this St. Patrick’s Day will be the ninth installment of The Irish Post. Which seems more impossible than Kelly Ripa’s love life. And as remarkable a thing as it is, and will be, I ain’t gonna lie. I’m already looking forward to next year.
Irish Post X.
That is carazy with a capital Kong. It’s a hot Prada enchilada served up on a regatta in Nevada. To the ‘fo of ‘sho. To the legit of no quit. To the verve of swerve and to all of the many and mighty tilted verbs that sobered up inside the written word of a Holy Day’s debauched solemnity.
From the get, The Irish Post has been a crime of passion, and guilt its best defense. The annual Drinks post has never been content with the opaque formalities of absolution, where sins are treated as commodities which can be traded for free passes to the next not so great idea. Instead it regales in the fallen angel who doesn’t give a great good shit to apologize for the sins of every day and everywhere, and everyone.
The installments of this particular series have run wild with comedy and deep with tragedy, as if the flag of Ireland was whispering its tab to the man settling its check. It has tipped the velvet, slow danced with the mysteries and kitsched up the woebegone of days well spent and nights deigned less so.
And what a glorious thing this will always be, to paint pictures of the heavens from the warm embrace of the fiery pits. To dream in colors possessed by sounds. To walk through the wildest fantasies of Joyce and Wilde and all those brilliant madmen whose pens sang acapella with the cosmos. Imagine all that, dressed up in roman numerals.
I’m guessing this year’s Irish Post will just have to make due.