Today is March 17. Just another holiday during which Americans can drink themselves into a stupor. As for me, the stupor usually comes halfway through the second glass. Is my low tolerance a blessing in a well-dressed disguise? Perhaps. But I've learned to live with it. I'm a cheap date. Or just cheap.
Come 4pm this afternoon, while my coworkers break open some bottles of Guinness, I shall indulge in a hearty glass of apple juice while jonesing for some homestyle corned beef and cabbage.
Happy St. Patrick's Day y'all.
I would like to thank the Academy for giving us over three hours of feigned looks of surprise, several hours of fashion analysis, vapid commentary from individuals who will never be nominated for an Oscar, the hope that "someday it'll be me up there," and yet another reason to drink on a Sunday afternoon.