St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago sucks

St. Patrick’s Day is celebrated throughout the world, but Chicagoans commemorate the holiday with uncommon zeal.  The Chicago River is dyed green.  The city hosts not one, but two separate parades.  Bars across the city shamelessly abandon their distinctive character and embrace everything Irish, including odd green beer.

These traditions are all charming.  As a person of Irish descent – bokeen is a Gaelic name – I appreciate the enthusiasm for the holiday.  However, the observance of St. Patrick’s Day has one exceptionally dreadful side effect: a vast number of Frat Boy Meatballs pack virtually every bar in the city.

In Chicago, St. Patrick’s Day is unofficially observed on the same weekend as the South Side Irish St. Patrick’s Day Parade.  Taverns across the city are overcrowded – some Irish bars will have lines out the door as early as Saturday afternoon.  Fighting the crowds to buy a drink becomes an arduous chore.  Scarce parking spots become nonexistent. Hordes of drunkards stagger through the streets, competing to hail cabs as they continue their pub crawl.

Frat Boy Meatballs are very easy to identify in the massive crowds.  They are men, usually in their 20s.  Many are overweight from immeasurable games of Beer Pong and Flippy Cup.  They are often spotted wearing polo shirts and, if the weather permits, cargo shorts.  The most distinct characteristic of the frat boy meatball is their obnoxious personality.

The voices of Frat Boy Meatballs will get much louder as the night progresses.  By twilight, their behavior becomes deplorable – it is not uncommon for a frat boy meatball to attempt to tongue-kiss an uninterested stranger.  By closing time, they are uncontrollably drunken; many will vomit in the street as their friends attempt to guide them to a cab.

It is ironic that while the “frat boy” ethos was cultivated during drunken college parties, the Frat Boy Meatball does not possess a tolerance for large volumes of alcohol.    

Normal bar patrons detest the frat boy meatball’s uncontrollable urges to yell indoors and behave like a rabid animal.  Frat Boy Meatballs turn a regular Saturday night into “Amateur Night.” 

Once the holiday weekend has passed, Frat Boy Meatballs return to their homes – presumably in Schaumburg – and are not seen within bars outside of Wrigleyville until the following March.  Without fail, the promise of green beer causes a full-fledged invasion of Frat Boy Meatballs on the streets of Chicago. 

It is as if Wrigley Field – the place with the highest per capita ratio of frat boy meatballs in the known universe – has exploded, littering the entire city with these detestable characters. 

I respectfully request that Frat Boy Meatballs stay in the suburbs.  Chicagoans are not interested in your crude displays of alpha male pride, your bulimic girlfriend or your boorish behavior.  And we certainly aren’t interested in watching you puke as your friends squeeze into a cab like circus clowns.  So please, stay home.

At least until the home opener at Wrigley.