You know a lot of Irish people live in your neighborhood when you see 50 million cigarette butts in front of every bar the day after St. Patrick's. Oh and there's also twenty empty little White Castle boxes, packets of eviscerated ketchup and greasy french fries strewn down the block like some drunken path Hansel & Gretel dropped to mark the way home.
Yeah, Sunnyside was a mess this morning but I didn't come across any vomit. Those Irish can really hold their beer. The most I ever drank without puking was six pints of Guinness. I once drank eight and made the fatal mistake of taking the Metro-North to Port Chester to visit my sister. Luckily, I had nothing to eat, so when I tossed my cookies it just looked like spilled pints of Guinness. Thick, black liquid rolling down the aisle like a mad river.
And probably because of goobers like myself, this year the Metro-North and the Long Island Railroad banned drinking alcohol on their trains just for St. Patrick's day. That's discrimination if you ask me. St. Paddy's day is a day for drinking, you can't force revelers to go dry! That's like banning food from the St. Gennaro's Feast. Could you imagine how many dead Council members would wind up at the dump?
Ah, whatever. The Irish have survived worse - heck, if they can chow down White Castle's after some serious drinking, their guts must be made of steel.