So once again Psycho Bunny is drunk and complaining. You would think he’d like St. Patrick’s Day. Nope. He considers it “amateur drinking day.”
Introducing the Psycho Bunny sketch of the week:
Personally I’m still not fond of the holiday. Don’t hate it as much as I used to, but still find many things wrong. There was no snakes in Ireland. St. Patrick ‘driving the snakes away’ is just simply a metaphor for converting people into Christian beliefs. Despite my half English ancestry, which can be traced back to Ireland and Scotland, I never connected with the holiday. Maybe it was due to people acting like drunken fools in the street. Don’t let my cynicism stop you. If you want to partake, that’s fine. This year, I learned about some of the ingredients of Irish soda bread. It goes along great with whiskey butter. Definitely not for amateurs.
However. Despite what I just stated above, I actually do have a lucky St. Paddy story.
The year was either 1987 or 1988. During the mid to late 80s, I was a Siouxsie Sioux clone. Everyday I would leave the house with huge teased black hair, after applying enough Aqua Net to penetrate the ozone layer. My makeup was a carbon copy of her style. However, because I was in the U.S. and not the U.K., people didn’t know what to make of me. The Goth subculture did not hit the mainstream as of yet. We’re talking before all the Tim Burton films were released. So most of the time I was called “Elvira” or simply “freak.”
That particular St. Paddy’s Day, I was walking down 2nd Avenue in the East Village. As I was heading towards 14th street, I passed an Irish bar. The bar entrance was wide open. Middle aged working class men were getting their drink on. Commuters lived in either New Jersey or Long Island, but partied terribly in NYC. The type that would piss in your backyard, then head to their respectable suburban homes as if nothing happened. As soon as they saw me, all the drunk working class men shouted insults towards me.
Walking by, I ignored the men. Still, by this point I was in a pissy mood. Out of nowhere, some young long haired guy jumps in front of me. He reeked of desperation.Not noticing how annoyed I already was, he opens a shoe box.
“Straight from London. Brand new…”
I took a peek. They were brand new creepers. They were smooth black leather, with a little more extra height on the platform soles. The silver design had zipper eye teeth, long thin spikes coming out in 3-D, and studded crosses in the middle. Not even Trash and Vaudeville sold these. They were gorgeous. They also looked majorly expensive.
Looking back at him, I said I only have either ten or twenty bucks. Showed him the money. He threw the shoes at me, snatched my money and ran. Guy obviously must’ve either stole this pair, needed money for drugs, or both. As he fled down the street I couldn’t believe it. The pair was a size too big but I loved them anyway. It was guaranteed nobody else had these shoes. Never saw another pair like them since. Wore them until they wore out.
That’s my lucky St. Patrick’s Day story.
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