All you do is plop a shot of Fireball into a pint of Sam Adams and BOOM! Hilarious drunktasticness! You can almost hear the desperate moans of the maimed as you enjoy!
Wait, what? You wish to never stop mashing your fist into my squishy asshole face because I’m the biggest shit in the entire universe? Maybe you should wait until you’ve finished your drink there. What is that you’re having by the way? Oh, an “Irish Car Bomb”? You and your twelve frat buddies just ordered these? Sounds fantastic.
Strange, no one ever orders a “Flaming Manhattan” on 9/11. We have no drink representing the Sandy Hook Massacre. Should somebody break out the mad mixology skillz and come up with a cocktail to commemorate the Virginia Tech shootings, the attack on Charlie Hebdo in Paris (Contreau and bloody Mary mix?) or the downing of Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland (Jager and single malt)? No? Or you could order your buddy who did two rotations escorting convoys in Iraq an “Explosively Formed Penetrator”? Tasteless? Offensive? Ass-kicking worthy?
If yes (and I hope you said yes) then why the fuck does the goddamned “Irish Car Bomb” exist? How is it ordered in 2015, and how are those who request it not told to go respond to their own mother’s ‘Casual Connections’ ad on Craigslist? This is a town where a fair number of Irish and Brits live. How are we still doing this?
For the record, the last major terrorist attack in Ireland was the Omagh bombing in 1998. A Vauxhall Cavalier full of semtex was detonated on a busy street at three in the afternoon killing 29 people of all backgrounds and ages. Kids. A woman pregnant with twins. This wasn’t in the ancient past or even a generation ago, it was a few short years before 9/11. Bombings perpetrated by Irish terrorists have injured civilians as recently as 2010.
When you tell someone in Ireland you’re from Boston they joke, “Boston is the capitol of Ireland!” So, citizens, try ordering that drink anywhere in that country and see what happens to you. Hint: There is a fair chance you will get to see how good you are at picking your teeth up off the sidewalk with broken fingers.
As Bostonians, we claim many special rights. The right to be a small city that gets to play with the big boys. The right to be a town where wicked smart people are celebrated alongside sports heroes and rock stars. A place that will unapologetically get all up in your face for being a dumbass (try being in the wrong lane on Storrow or giving money to that sob story guy on the train) and where we show terrorists what it’s like to fuck with the wrong town. Our composure after the Marathon bombing, our resilience, and our strength showed the country and the world how we do things here.
All of that is for shit if one week out of the year we tolerate a bunch of dick-holes in green plastic bowlers and those horrific louvered sunglasses to order “Irish Car Bombs” without challenge, without someone saying “dude, not cool”. We can just revert to being nothing more than comically-accented provincial idiots, swimming in our own fetid hypocrisy, in that case.