Rusty's Diary, Vol. 4: The Luck of the Irish Can Kiss My Furry Ass

Oh, FANTASTIC. Saturday is St. Patrick's Day, which means the humans will descend upon my sacred pinball machine sanctuary like locusts wearing plastic bowler hats and "Kiss Me I'm Irish" buttons.

Spoiler alert: none of them are Irish. Most of them can't even spell "leprechaun" without autocorrect. But here they'll be, demanding green beer like it's some sort of ancient Celtic tradition instead of what it actually is — regular beer with food coloring that'll turn their tongues the color of antifreeze.

The entire bar is draped in green streamers that look like they were purchased from a gas station clearance bin in 2003. Green tablecloths. Green napkins. Green EVERYTHING. I hate green. The only green I appreciate comes in rectangular denominations with dead presidents on it, preferably dropped by drunk customers who can't count their change.

But this? This aggressive assault of emerald mediocrity makes my garbage-trained eyes want to retreat permanently into my skull. And don't get me started on the "lucky" decorations — four-leaf clovers everywhere, horseshoes, rainbows promising pots of gold.

LUCK? I was born in a lightning storm behind a WAFFLE HOUSE. My uncle abandoned me for a possum with commitment issues. Last week I got my paw stuck in a beer bottle for THREE HOURS. If luck exists, it took one look at my file and filed a restraining order.

But the real kicker? Everyone expects me to be FESTIVE about it. "Oh Rusty, wear this little green hat!" No, Brenda. I will not. I'll be right here under my pinball machine, watching you all stumble around pretending shamrocks have magical properties while spending your rent money on overpriced whiskey. At least the tips might be decent — drunk humans are notoriously bad at math, which is the closest thing to luck I'll ever experience.

-r.b.

Rusty Barstool hates St. Patrick's Day.