Per usual, I’m a day late and many dollars short, but perhaps I can make a bit of lemonade out of this by looking forward and replacing “Ides of March” with “Saint Patrick’s Day.”
Something along the lines of, “It’s not just about befouling one’s body with alcohol to the point of near-death intoxication, to a degree that one’s liver is ready to test the free agent market in hopes of finding a more responsible being – perhaps a hobo, a depressed former Soviet Gulag guard or an abused Mongolian yak – it’s about befouling one’s body with alcohol to the point near-death intoxication in groups.
Of course, I wised up after a generation of such foolishness and no longer inflict such near-death experiences upon myself. But I hear I had a great time.
The Cotton Boll Conspiracy 