Welcome to Pissing Contest, a weekly story sharing circle for the the ass-draggiest time of the afternoon on the ass-draggiest time of the last day between you and the weekend. Every week, we'll ask a question, you'll share stories, and we'll pick a winner that's featured in the next week's post. It's like a pyramid scheme of outdoing each other!

It's that time of the year already: corned beef and cabbage, signs outside of bars holding them out as "YOUR ST. PATRICK'S DAY HEADQUARTERS," headbands with green shamrocks affixed to long springs, streets that smell of sour beer barf at 10 am, drunk white girls who lost their cell phones crying paths through their green facepaint, drunk bros getting yelled at by their girlfriends in Chipotle, 4 pm hangovers, new friends trying to subtly digitally stimulate each other on the train platform, random bottles thrown out of windows, and a helpful reminder from actual Irish people that in actual Ireland people don't act like such jackasses on this saint's day.

We can pretty much all agree that while St. Patrick's Day is sort of a shitshow, it's the sort of shitshow that often produces the best, most What The Fuck stories so good (and bad!) that you can't help retell them over and over.

Because this is the first of many Friday afternoon Pissing Contests, I'll share my Sloppy St. Pat's Story. I'm sure it won't be hard for 90% of you to outdo.

My senior year at the University of Notre Dame, and cultural mores there dictate that St. Patrick's Day be celebrated hard. Partying begins early and extends throughout the day and every apartment complex off campus is sort of a horrible spring break fever dream that doesn't stop, and everything smells like barf. When I was 21, I thought this was awesome, because, like most people, I was an actual idiot at 21.


I won't bore you with the details (also, I don't remember most of the details) but the night ended up with telling a bunch of people I'd just met that my name was ERIN GO BRALESS followed by me grind-dancing with some sophomore with a fake ID on the dance floor of a shitty bar with sticky floors called The Linebacker Lounge, then returning to my purse only to discover that it and my coat had both been stolen. It was not warm outside. I was the world's saddest drunk girl on the official holiday of sad drunk girls.

Two weeks later, I got a call on my new cell phone from a number I didn't recognize. Apparently my purse had been found in the bathroom of a local methadone clinic. Everything was still inside except for the cash. And my social security card.

So that was a great St. Patrick's Day.

And with that, I invite — nay, insist — that you, dear readers, outdo that easy-to-beat story of intoxication and heartache.


Also, to whoever stole my purse on that gloomy March day almost a decade ago: póg mo thóin.

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