Proud to be (a little) Irish

Last week, to prepare myself for the St. Patrick’s Day holiday, I burned a CD with about thirty Irish pub songs for use in my car.

I started listening on Monday. I was still listening today, four days after the holiday. I am about to go insane, but I can’t stop.

What gets me is the fact that these Irish folks, who are presumably always drunk, can remember the eight billion words that are to be in any song and that they can spit those words back out as fast as many of these melodies require.

This is what has convinced me of the supreme greatness of Irish people: they’re always drunk, fighting, and can really drop a phat beat.

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The plural is actually Foci

Well, it was bound to happen. The folks said I needed a more dependable car for college. So, Ringo is no more. He’s gone to the great trade-in lot in the sky. The people at the ford dealership gave me a paltry $500 for him, including the $400 stereo unit I had put in about six months ago.

But now it’s time to usher in a new generation of Peterson pimpage: Now, instead of seeing me cruising at the speed of light in a pretty red car that breaks down every few weeks, you can see me accelerating more responsibly in a car with four doors. Oh well, that just means I’ll have a backseat wherein I can seduce women. Lots of them. After all, who wouldn’t fall for me when they see me rolling along in a 2005 Ford Focus ZX4 SE?

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Boxing Day is only 9 months away

If you don’t know Stefanie, she’s a family friend who stayed at my house two summers ago and sporadically since. Now, she’s living with us quasi permanently, because she has always wanted to live in Florida.

The other day, she got a couple of desktop calendars for my computer table. They’re the kind where you have to rip off a page for each day to present a new fact or trivia question. In this case, they’re Buccaneers and Major League Baseball themes.

But on to my gripe session. I never really understood these types of calendars: they sit there, reflecting 1/365 of the year while leaving you largely unenlightened about the days and weeks surrounding the single day that sits there and stares you in the face. What if it’s Boxing Day in Canada next Tuesday? How can I even begin to prepare my annual Boxing Day party if I don’t know about it until next Tuesday when I finally remember to rip off the sheets of paper that have been left untouched for a week because I forgot to bother with the whole progression of time? This, my friends, is a veritable mystery.

By the way, you’re all invited to my annual Boxing Day gala on December 26. Tell your friends and BYOB.

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