After the Potato Famine, They Fled to Alabama

How many of you expect the Irish to be in Birmingham, Alabama? I certainly did not, but there they were in all of their glory. Pale men with shaved heads drinking Guinness's and car bombs, wearing kilts, and listening to a fiddle. Irish flags littered the walls. Smithwicks and Newcastle littered the taps. I've seen similar bars in Jersey, but this just seemed forced so south of the Mason-Dixon line.

The funniest part about this night out was that not a single person from Ireland was there, yet they continually pledged commitment to the motherland, which I think is actually the nick name for England. These people were so passionate about their patriotism for a country that they never visited, and it was so intense that you wouldn't think that it was a completely Romantic notion, but indeed it was at that.

These guys had thick thick southern drawls. I am telling you, dear reader, that they said things like "yall" and "biscuit". My favorite part was the 9 min vocal solo that consisted of no singing and a lot of instructions. The lead singer of the band talked about the Emerald Isle, and everyone in the bar held up his or her drink for this very long cheers. Several men, wearing the band's tee-shirt that said in clear white block letters "Kiss Me I'm Shitfaced", walked all around the bar clinking cups with every single person. I joined in for the first 60 seconds, but then I got thirsty and tired of the man telling me how to feel about the homeland of my great grandparents, and I drank my beer.

(Above: Album cover of that night's band)

Later I won a game of pool against a Republican Volleyball coach. It was a good night.