How Sing Like A Drunken Irishman...
...Featuring Wilson & Sand-Monster.
To be honest, I probably should've written this last week, but with school and the yuletide season, I've just been too lazy.
And so, here it is, yet another documentation of the insanity that is my family:
It was another well-spent Sunday night at the Iacovone residence, featuring the arrival of my long-lost older cousin Winslow, and his pet Shiz-Tzu, Sandra Dee. Uncle Patricia, The Godfather, Johan & Oswald were about to engage in a rallying game of Texas Hold 'Em, when the sudden desire for ice cream struck us all. Being that no one really felt like leaving the house, Wilson took up the responisibilty of making the so-called beer run. Of course, Sand-monster wished to go, as did I. However, the problem that we were presented with was that Oscar LaVonne wished to join us in the limited space that is the Fuckus. And so, with Wilsonius searching for the keys, and Sandra & myself making making a run for the twinkie, the two of us piled in and locked the doors behind us, eagerly waiting for the driver. Of course, Oscar got to us before Wilson did.
And so began the battle of pushing, shoving, kicking, and slamming locks down until Oscar was completely quarantined and we were able to back out of the driveway.
Go us.
Once a safe distance for the residence, Wilson inserted one of his recent favorites, a Dropkick Murphys disc. Or maybe it was Flogging Molly. It really could have been either; all I knew was that it was Irish Punk at it's finest. Fast, Loud, and full o' drunks. It quite possibly could've been recorded at a pub for all I know.
Anyhow, as Wilson and Sand-monster began their drunken sing-along, I merely lounged in the back, trying my damndest to follow along in their calculated sways and meticulous slurring of words. As we sped along the night highway, I couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of our actions. Even more so, the reactions we received from innocent onlookers.
Though a very short trip both to and from the local store, I had to admit- it was a jolly good show.
As for the ice-cream of choice: Vanilla Brownie Swirl.
Damn those Irish and their encouragement of the consuption of such delights.
-Out like a Irishman in a Finn's Bar
('Cause God knows even Irishmen can't hold that much liquor),
Jonez
To be honest, I probably should've written this last week, but with school and the yuletide season, I've just been too lazy.
And so, here it is, yet another documentation of the insanity that is my family:
It was another well-spent Sunday night at the Iacovone residence, featuring the arrival of my long-lost older cousin Winslow, and his pet Shiz-Tzu, Sandra Dee. Uncle Patricia, The Godfather, Johan & Oswald were about to engage in a rallying game of Texas Hold 'Em, when the sudden desire for ice cream struck us all. Being that no one really felt like leaving the house, Wilson took up the responisibilty of making the so-called beer run. Of course, Sand-monster wished to go, as did I. However, the problem that we were presented with was that Oscar LaVonne wished to join us in the limited space that is the Fuckus. And so, with Wilsonius searching for the keys, and Sandra & myself making making a run for the twinkie, the two of us piled in and locked the doors behind us, eagerly waiting for the driver. Of course, Oscar got to us before Wilson did.
And so began the battle of pushing, shoving, kicking, and slamming locks down until Oscar was completely quarantined and we were able to back out of the driveway.
Go us.
Once a safe distance for the residence, Wilson inserted one of his recent favorites, a Dropkick Murphys disc. Or maybe it was Flogging Molly. It really could have been either; all I knew was that it was Irish Punk at it's finest. Fast, Loud, and full o' drunks. It quite possibly could've been recorded at a pub for all I know.
Anyhow, as Wilson and Sand-monster began their drunken sing-along, I merely lounged in the back, trying my damndest to follow along in their calculated sways and meticulous slurring of words. As we sped along the night highway, I couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of our actions. Even more so, the reactions we received from innocent onlookers.
Though a very short trip both to and from the local store, I had to admit- it was a jolly good show.
As for the ice-cream of choice: Vanilla Brownie Swirl.
Damn those Irish and their encouragement of the consuption of such delights.
-Out like a Irishman in a Finn's Bar
('Cause God knows even Irishmen can't hold that much liquor),
Jonez