Anthony Makes Pass At Irish Girls, Crashes, Burns. A Post Script Note: I Am A Golden God

A word of caution. This entry makes me look terribly shallow, and if you think it will lower your opinion of me in anyway, read on, because this shit is funny.

In World War II Adolph Hitler sent paratroopers on a mission. These paratroopers landed in the private estates of many noble English families. Their aim you may ask? Assassinate members of parliament perhaps? No, in fact, he sent them diplomatically. He attempted to rouse the British nobility into an uprising against the crown. Hitler wanted rally the barons, appealing to the spirit of those like Simon de Montfort who lead the second Baron’s revolt against Henry III. He also implored them to recognize their proud Germanic heritage, as Angles, Saxons, and Jutes once dominated what we now called England. For being one of the biggest geniuses of the 20th century, Hitler was incredibly stupid. The nobles had these paratroopers captured by the military. I don’t remember the name of this operation, but I’m sure Casey does.
My point in telling this story, you may ask? This endeavour undertaken by the Third Reich is comparable to an American trying to pick up an Irish girl. At first, when I got to campus, pubs, etc. I thought “Oh, my,” Irish girls are all beautiful. This is not true. I soon realized the way they dress, present themselves, and love to go out, etc. was all very attractive. But only from a distance. I was fooled, many times over, into thinking a girl was gorgeous, and then soon realized when she turned around, that behind the thick eye makeup and cool hair, my initial response was not to be trusted. Having said that, the ones who are attractive are ridiculously attractive. There really is no middle ground. I think the beautiful ones let it go to their head that the entire population of Irish males are fawning over them. That is probably why the Irish are famously silver tongued. They have to be, or good luck with that whole progeny thing. I have also noticed (and any Irish man and many Irish girls will confirm) they are incredibly gossipy, catty, and devious. The old “a woman scorned…” proverb particularly comes into play. If you anger one of them, you might as well emigrate. Having said that, I have meet a fair number of really cool, down to earth Irish girls in class or on mountaineering trips, that sort of thing, and I’m not making any sort of blanket misogynist statements. There have been instances where I have talked to a girl a pub for around half an hour, many of those instances purely platonic. However, when I asked for a number, or to hang out I’d get an excuse like “oh, my boyfriend would not like that,” or, “I live far away.” As a naturally out-going person, I find this frustrating. Further proof that this is not just my imagination, my friend Dan, who is Irish, informed me that he never met a single American who has ever hooked up with an Irish girl. And, he used to organize events from international students, and has several close American friends who are back in the states now. At this point, I don’t even try. I guess I’ll have to stick to getting shot down by Americans.

A post script note: I am a Golden God, All Lesser Men, Bow Before Me.

I have an A game* and a B game**. Many of you have witnessed this, or been on the receiving end of either. In my B game I imagine my self some charming, debonair cross between Cary Grant, Woody Allen, Tucker Max, and Ryan Adams. In reality, I act like a sort of mix between an 8th grader who listens to too much Weezer***, Jon Lovitz, Tucker Max, and Rico Suave. I lay it on way too thick, make an ass of myself, and then move to the corner to drink whiskey****. On my A game, I am completely indifferent, do not try at all, have no intention of hitting on anyone, and end up being really funny and charming. This does not happen often, usually I am trying my damnedest*****. On last Wednesday night, here follows a story of my A game.
I was just hanging out with my roommates relaxing, having a few whiskey sours. I get a text (all people do over here is text, because calling is so expensive) from my previously mentioned Irish friend Dan. He asks me if I want to meet him and some friends at a pub. Having nothing else to do, I think, why not? I’ll go for a pint, stay an hour then go to bed. I arrive, and he introduces me to his friends. They had just left a student government function, and were all wearing suits and ties. I was in my Ergs t-shirt and Pixies hoodie. I soon start talking to this Irish girl (not one of Dan’s friends, but I didn’t realize it at the time). She cute, tall, blond, and wear a red corset (later in the evening she points out some thing like “you know I’m really only wearing underwear right now,” I can’t make this shit up******). I have not showered in one, possibly two days. Half the people around me are wearing suits, and I am dressed like a ragamuffin. I tell her a few of my better stories, such as the Knacker incident, or the Donny’s going away party*******, and she was rolling with laughter. I ask her to tell me a story, when she can’t think of one, I ask a few questions such as “what is your favourite colour********” etc. I also rip into her for mentioning she likes a Nickleback song (that stupid rock star one, which is somewhat clever, but still).
At one point Dan starts to talked to me, and a guy cut in to talk to her (I’ll omit her name for tact, but she told me people joke with her and call her Barbie because she is tall, blond, and has a super-American name. So imagine a really American name, and insert it for the desired effect). Dan points this out to me saying something to the effect of “you know, he’s trying to cut in on you.” Caring little about that, but mostly just enjoying myself, I, with the utmost deft and cunning, swoop back in when he does a quarter turn. Soon after I ask if she wants to sit down. We move to a couch where there are already two people making out. I hesitate and suggest we keep standing. Knowing one them (I think) she pulls me toward her and bades me to sit. I’m in the process of telling a story, but she leans forward like she wants me to kiss her, and I mos def wait to finish my story. I’ll leave the gory details to you imagination, needless to say making out with someone in a pub is tacky enough (at least, I think so, but Irish folks do it all the time, hell, they’ll make out on the street). Every once and a while we’d stop and talk some more, I asked some more “get to know you questions.” She asks me one question, which was what one might call “impure” or “lewd.” I was quite taken aback by it, but I think she interpreted my reaction as playing it cool. I was not. Merely surprised. She, throughout the night, like the corset comment made a few statements, that for the sake of modesty (I really have no shame, I know full well that your over active imaginations will make the events more outrageous than my colourful prose ever could) I will not repeat.
At closing time we leave, and she gives me her number. I ask if she really wants to hang out again, knowing the sorts of games these sneaky Irish play. She insists that she does. As I leave Dan turns to me and says “do you realize what you have done? You have done what no other American has done.” I reply “I am a Golden God.” He confirms, “You are a Golden God.” He informs me that he has to tell his friends in the States what happened, because they tried their hardest to do for 5 months, what my dishevelled, unwashed, ineffectual self had just done. I walk home and think to myself “Damn, muthafucka, I thought you knew? Shit.”
The next day I sent Dan a text which I will now transcribe verbatim.
Me: “I am a golden god, all lesser men bow before me.”
Dan: “Word of your amazing deeds has reached your homeland. You’ll receive a hero’s welcome home.”

A Post Post Script note:
I haven’t texted her back yet, but I probably will in the next day or so. Because the Irish use primarily text messages and not phone calls to communicate, I now enjoy and enormous advantage. Anyone who knows me, and has seen the film Swingers, knows exactly what that advantage is. But those are thoughts for another day. Right now, I am leading gallant forces, riding across a plain. My Helm, breastplate and vambraces shine with the finest gold filigree. My blade gleams with righteousness and fortitude. My banner aloft, I cross the Lee as if it were the Rubicon. Sir Ian McKellan is at my right, dressed like Gandalf, and Sir Anthony Hopkins my left dressed as Hannibal Lector. I lead the Third Great Baron’s revolt, soon, I’ll have royal heads on a proverbial pike********. Mel Gibson will make films about me, and greatly exaggerate the details.

Retribution will be mine, bloody and swift, and the world will tremble beneath me.



*For A game reference, see Dano Colon for reference.
**For a B game reference, see Dano Colon for reference.
*** E.G. my 8th grade self.
**** See Dano Colon for reference.
***** See Dano Colon for reference.
******Really.
******* A few details. Donny’s going away party was at some random 40-something year-old woman’s house, who none of us knew. Zack read people’s runes. As we left, she said goodbye to us wearing nothing but a silky bathrobe. We went down the water slide at Roosevelt park pool naked. When the police came I half scaled a fence until I realized I was naked. We ended up shooting the shit with one of the only cool officers on the Minot police force. We each paid a 75 dollar fine in the morning.
******** The stupid autocorrect uses the E.U. version of English.
********* Very proverbial and not literal at all, I just want to cover my tracks in case Mi6 is reading this. It’s a metaphor, damnit!