The Margaritas Were Greener

Yesterday was St. Patrick's Day, which I suppose is a big deal since I'm Irish. Or something. Just as I strive not to tell ethnic jokes, I try not to be an ethnic joke either, which means I annually refuse to be a boozy mess on this holiday. As you learned yesterday, I failed on that account this year, but it was Margarita Monday which supersedes any political agenda I might hold. This would include voting -- thank goodness election days are on Tuesdays.

In celebration of the holiday, I bought green food dye to make our favorite light green drinks a few shades darker. To my surprise, Irish magic had already struck: the restaurant had already created dark green margaritas for the festivities. Michael Michael declined the extra green concoction, having our bartender whip em up the usual kind. While ey wasn't looking, however, Laura and I covertly added drops to his drink; the transformation confused Michael Michael since we just blamed it on the leprechaun fairy.

Even more confused was Jocelyn's friend, a first-timer. Michael Michael came up behind Ben, rubbed his head, and kissed em on the forehead. For whatever reason, after witnessing this incident, the newcomer mistook Michael Michael for a server and attempted to order drinks from em. I'm not sure why this person thought the wait staff was so affectionate that they kiss their customers; maybe ey thought they were celebrating the "kiss me, I'm Irish" tradition.

We aren't the only regulars at Margarita Mondays. Once a month, a Shakespeare reading group convenes in the private room to read a play. The group is comprised of entirely senior citizens except for one younger woman who wears funny hats. Our contingency often ridicules them since they seem to be humorless folks who questionably don't take advantage of the $2 drink special. Having received eir degree in theater, Ben once inquired whether he could join the group. The readers said yes, but that they don't allow yelling, a thinly veiled criticism of our boisterous behavior outdoors.

As usual, I'm sure we irritated the Shakespearean readers with our frequent laughter. Last night, we discussed what it's like to laugh and consequently shoot liquids through one's nose, recalling the time Jessica's nose bled after leaking margarita out of it. Looking to make a jab at our rival group, I quipped that this potential margarita danger explains why the Shakespeare readers never read any comedies. Stacy and I then engaged in a nerdy English major exchange.

"No A Midsummer Night's Dream?"
"No, those mix-ups are too hilarious!"
"And men dressed up as women! Shakespeare, that card!"
"Another incident of dramatic irony: the audience knows, but the characters do not. When will it stop?!"
"These anachronisms keep tickling my funny bone."
etc.

Everyone else just kind of stared at us, bored with our jokes. I'm sorry if our humor is too sophisticated for them; maybe we are snooty enough to join the group. I can't in good conscience do that, however, since they're so rude. During the evening, Allison and a Shakespearette both rounded a similar corner and nearly ran into one another. As Allison apologized, the Shakespeare reader just dismissed eir like it was all Allison's fault. It's called an accident, or being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or to use a reference they might better understand, like when Hamlet erroneously stabbed and killed Polonius from behind a curtain.

Fortunately, Allison kept eir sense of humor better, later sharing one of eir jokes: What's Irish and stays out all night? Patty O'Furniture. I like that one a lot since it's topical and while it still makes a coy reference to the stereotypical intoxicated Irish joke, it takes it in a different, goofy direction. That's the kind of Irish joke I want to be.