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Finding a decent place to pee pee.
By decent I mean not having to wait more than 20 minutes to enter a
porta-potty that has a nearly full waste container with a giant turd sitting on the top covered in what appears to be bird seed. And not trying to sneak a leak in the thin bushes in the square, because you know someone is going to expose you for laughs.
You have to seek out the one person in the group who is the inside toilet man. This guy has confidential intelligence on the one
porta-potty or corner dumpster that the other 399,999 revelers downtown somehow missed. When you get back to your drinking spot, and someone asks you where the best place to pee is, you shrug and say, "Anywhere."
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People stealing beer from your cooler.
You were smart. You went to Kroger the night before and bought a case or more of beer that tastes less than it costs. Bought the bag of ice, and most importantly, found a way to get the cooler to the square. That means either you lugged the bastard there or some poor soul who is too nice agreed to bring it for you.
Then your friends' creepy other friends just start reaching into whatever cooler, just because, "Hey, bra, whatever. It's Saint Patty's Day." No asking, no thanking. Just a lowlife vagabond skating through life mooching off intelligent, prepared individuals.
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Females.We like the better looking gender hanging around, fixing the sausage ratio. They look pretty in green and sunglasses. But they have trouble adjusting to the conditions and checking their high maintenance at the door. Where we deem it acceptable to urinate, they feel like they can stake out some magical, cleaner piss pot. When we're hitting our third wind at 5:00 p.m., they start pouting like they lost the Sunday school Easter egg hunt. Guys who now live all scattered around in Georgia get one guaranteed day to hang out like the good
ol' days, and Jessica wants to go home at 3:00 because "her head hurts."
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AcquaintancesDon't get me wrong - one of the best parts about March Seventeenth is seeing all those wandering souls from your past who look fatter, older, and definitely weirder than they used to look.
But God knows you can't remember the names of some of these sons of bitches. "
Hmm. Your face is definitely similar to one I recall when I was a senior, and you were perhaps a sophomore. We may have even had a ten minute conversation in 2001 about something." He remembers your name as if it were written on your forehead. Just try your best to flash that little smile of recognition, say something crude that gets a pity chuckle, shake hands, take a drink, and mosey away.
Equally uncomfortable is the complete opposite situation. The acquaintance who is really good friends with one of your friends. You've met on several occasions, know exactly who he is and what his job is, but the guy will cheerfully introduce himself every year. Seems like a nice guy.
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VisitorsIt's a given that we all despise out-of-
towners like the good little isolationists we are. They crowd our streets and bring in an odor of douche so strong it cuts through the parade horse poop. However, this element of the crowd is consistent and predictable, and so I don't consider them to be a top inconvenience. I believe the last spot is more appropriate for the out-of-
towners we actually know and unleash unto the festivities. Even more specifically, the ones who have never been to Savannah.
They ask you about the best bars to go to, the best square from which to observe the parade, so on and so on. Always full of questions, these people. Now you have to play host, desperately trying to slice up your time between these visitors (usually people you already see too much of anyway) and the Savannah folks. Their typical impatience forces you to realize that maybe not everyone is that interested in standing around for ten hours outside of a circle of guys who tell obnoxious inside jokes and pretend like your visitors aren't even there. To hell with these people. Hire a tour guide next time.
