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Though I have voiced my admiration for Boston in the past, with St. Patrick’s Day only days away, it’s high time I add some fuel to the fire of dick swinging and pretentiousness, which Boston has become synonymous with. To be blunt, you may as well not even celebrate St. Patrick’s Day unless you’re doing so in Boston.
Just as some activities and events have a very specific time and place, St. Patrick’s Day is no different. Mardi Gras outside New Orleans is a sham and horse races besides the Triple Crown and Carolina Cup are frankly pathetic.
I know many of you are reading this and thinking to yourselves about that crazy party your chapter held last year. Oh you got eight kegs and had some green paint? That’s fun — but did your entire city literally shut down in order to be flooded by blackout gingers celebrating their heritage?
Having grown up in New England and getting a taste of the madness at a young age, I knew I had to go back once I was an undergrad. Last St. Patrick’s Day, I did just that and all I can really describe it as is every Boston stereotype coming to life only with even more liquor than people associate with the city of degenerates. As I linked up with some high school friends as well as members of my same chapter at the numerous Boston schools, the madness commenced. The party started as soon as I landed in the city three days before St. Patrick’s day, as every single party I attended was already themed as such starting on March 14. This was all fun and games but nothing compared to the big leagues on my final day: parade day.
Waking up felt like any other day long. I donned my properly themed party attire and promptly hit the kegs. As the clock rolled around to noon and we boarded the train to the South End, the insanity set in. Never have I seen so many green people in one place all so hellbent on getting even more drunk and causing even more damage. After a train ride consisting of breaking every ceiling panel and ad banner in sight, we arrived, this time to catch a bus to the parade route since all the main roads were closed.
Once again, the bus was stuffed to the gills and it was clearly not the (probably also drunk) bus driver’s first rodeo. After smoking my fair share of cigs while aboard and relieving myself under the seat twice, along with the rest of the bus, we had finally made it to the holy mecca.
Details were shadier than the people of the city which hosted me yet all I know is I had a damn good time when we finally arrived. Those in the parade threw out pedialyte samples as a preemptive measure, beers were detonated, recently legalized weed was smoked on every street corner, and “Shipping Up to Boston” by Dropkick Murphys was played on every speaker in the city on a 24-hour loop — truly a beautiful sight.
As my drunken auto-pilot kicked in, I knew I had to sober up and make my 8 p.m. flight back to school that night. I am still relatively uncertain as to how I boarded my flight home without being cuffed for public intoxication, but somehow, through the grace of St. Patrick himself, I arose six hours later hungover as all hell at Salt Lake City International Airport..