March 06, 2007
Originally published March 5, 2002
I put in for some vacation time today and had it approved.
For people who have never been to Savannah on St. Patrick's Day, I'll tell you the honest truth. It's the one time of the year that the "beautiful lady with a dirty face" lets her hair down, takes off her panties and runs around crazed, with her dress hiked up around her neck. About 600,000 people show up to watch the dynamite parade (greater Savannah, including all the suburbs and incorporated localities has a population of less than 300,000), then about 500,000 of them go to River Street to drink beer and party like rabid dogs. The jails fill up, the cobblestone streets run yellow with beer and urine, women expose their breasts frequently, a couple of unfortunates always fall in the river and drown and a LOT of folks get laid that night. I once attended the festivities every year, but now I'm old, decrepit and burnt out. If I went down there and drank the way I used to, I probably would be the one of the unfortunate doofuses who fell in the river and drowned. If you make that mistake on St. Patrick's Day, your best friends usually take at least two days to realize that you are missing, then the authorities take another three or four to find your crab-eaten body up under a dock somewhere. It ain't the way I want to go.
So, I am staying home on St. Patrick's Day and going to Key West immediately thereafter. I am also staying at a "clothing optional" den of iniquity, where I intend to stay naked a lot and tan certain private parts of my body under the warm Carribean sun. I haven't been to the Keys in years, but I'll bet the conch fritters are still delicious and the Bloody Marys with fresh lime, accompanied with two Tylenol, can still wipe away the most merciless of hangovers, and I intend to cultivate a few while I'm there.
Hell, I might even take my "fix a flat" kit with me, just in case I get lucky.
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