I worked SEVEN St. Patrick’s Days, as a valet parking attendant in an Irish joint, and I’ve seen insanity on a biblical scale. It was a prime rib dinner house in a tony section of Long Beach, California. That, of course, meant absolutely nothing to hundreds of shit-faced-drunk, stupid white-boys. Exactly two miles away from my location, on Main Street, in Seal Beach, there were three Irish joints in one block. It was a fucking war zone EVERY year. Two years in a row, the mob rampaged down Main St., towards Pacific Coast Highway, looting jewelry store windows, overturning Seal Beach Police cars, and setting the cars on fire.
I was the first, and most important, line of defense, for our joint, and I took my responsibility very seriously. I was always armed in my lot and, on St. Paddy’s Day, I brought even more iron. In addition to my standard load-out of a Model 60 Stainless Steel Chief’s Special, I had a Remington 870 pump and a S&W Model 27, 5″, .357 Magnum, lying on the front seat of my own car, with a blanket covering them, and the door unlocked. All day long, drunk, white-boy fuck-tards would stop their cars at my driveway, which I had blocked with a car, so as to keep them from driving into my lot. The passenger would yell at me, “Hey, asshole, move that fucking car.” “Do you have a reservation, Sir?” “FUCK YOU.” “No, fuck YOU.” I’m pretty sure that the owners of the restaurant never fully appreciated my contribution to the safety of our employees and customers and the non-destruction of our premises, for which I was wholly responsible. The occasional car-load of revelers would find a place to park in the neighborhood, and careen down the street and through my lot. One time, I was standing by my car, ready to open the door and grab my shotgun, when about 6 assholes rolled through. One of them yelled at me, “You got any fucking money?” “Nah, I don’t have any fucking money.” If they could have found parking, Main Street, Seal Beach would have been replicated, and I would have been forced to use my riot gun.
Every single one of those seven years, some masochistic, usually SHORT, “bottom” in a homosexual relationship (a gay receiver), would roll into the restaurant around 10:30 P.M. (I didn’t park his car), when the place had cleared out a skoshi bit, and yell, “FUCK THE IRISH.” He would be dutifully and indubitably rendered unconscious, in a surprisingly short amount of time. One year we had FIVE separate fights going on at the same time. We just ignored them and they eventually resolved themselves.
Ya gotta be nuts if you go “out” for Saint Patrick’s Day. Get drunk at home.