Kiss Me (Or Punch Me) I’m Irish

Above: A Lingo Slinger Original

We made our way up to the bar and squeezed in… I exposed a bitta cleavage, hoping to quench my thirst faster than the other 30 patrons who also had their hands waving money at the overworked and underpaid bar staff.

He was a few feet away from me. He kept looking at me in an intrusive and blatant manner. A manner I was not familiar with. I pretended not to notice. After 10 minutes of him doing this, I couldn’t pretend anymore.

“I’m Selina” I said as I extended my hand.
His face turned Red
“Connor” he said as he looked down at the floor

His accent was thicker than expired molasses. He wasn’t from around here, not even from this corner of the world. At first guess I thought “Scottish”, but his face and furrowed brows told me otherwise.

“Are you Irish?” I asked
“Yes. I’m here on a work permit…”
“Interesting… I’m Welsh.”
I nodded at the bartender “I’ll have a double rye and ginger”

His look was that of frustration, his mannerisms awkward at best, he didn’t feel comfortable with himself or me. He was as out of place as a meth-head in a Buddhist temple.

My friend and I decided to make the general vicinity we were standing in our permanent drinking area… Nice and close to the bar, that way we could maximize our consumption and not lose any valuable drinking time traveling.

We turned our attention away from Connor and his two friends and began catching up… Talking about our lives, laughing at the trainwreck beside us who had the fashion sense of a blind amish-turned-new-wave woman from 1984.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched Connor. He was talking to himself and pacing… His friends oblivious. He kept looking over with an angry frustrated face, as if I had done something to him… “He’s a weird one” I thought to myself. Angry and and fucked up and ready to brawl.

I was curious though.

I took a few steps toward him “Are you okay?”
“What the fuck do you care… Go back to your drink… Don’t worry about me” he said.
My eyes widened… My jaw dropped. I indeed went back to my drink, threw it back harshly and quickly and put on my game face.

Eventually he was in front of me again…

We proceeded to argue intensely about a variety of things. I must have said “fuck you” a hundred times. He was obsessively argumentative, overly aggressive, and god damn strange… He had his gloves off, wasn’t holding back… Neither was I.

He knocked me down once or twice. I put him in his place several times, before growing tired of the game. I wasn’t out to fight… I just wanted to get pissed.

“You are a miserable jaded fuck… Have a nice evening!” I smiled and was about to walk away.

He grabbed my face and kissed me.

True story… Happened about 4 years ago. Still puzzles me to this day.

Speaking of the Irish… I created a few kick-ass St. Patrick’s Day t-shirts. Click here to visit the Lingo Slinger Apparel shop. C’mon, where else are you gonna find a “Fuck Me I’m Irish” shirt?!


15 thoughts on “Kiss Me (Or Punch Me) I’m Irish

  1. Wow! Very cool story, You told it really well. How was the kiss? I imagine that it was amazing, but that’s just my guess.

  2. Yes, you Irish folks are an interesting breed!!

    Course I don’t mind about the plug… I’m on my way to check it out… I’ll throw up a link too.

  3. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been that harsh on you πŸ™‚

    btw – I’m only 25% Irish, but my wife is 75%, so at least that’s an upgrade for our kids…

    I like the shirt. I think I’ll pick one up.


  4. Great story!

    I’d kiss you too, but I’m neither Irish nor drunk nor a stalker. What does that mean?

    Ha ha…! πŸ™‚

    I’ve got an Irish man story too. College…Vegas…random…I may post about it sometime. TBD!

  5. Rambling Muse: You’re a sassy sister, i’d kiss you any day! πŸ˜‰

    Antoine: Thanks… I thought you’d get a kick outta that one.

  6. Rev: I had to laugh at that… Choir boy you are not. You’re pretty damn wild yourself (in a variety of ways). Have you read your own blog lately?!

  7. You think that poor bastards got problems?

    I was born and raised a New Zealander making me a true blue kiwi but my old man is a Pom (born in New Hampshire) making me half pom.

    My dad’s lineage goes back to Scotland. My mum, despite being born and raised in New Zealand, has her lineage coming from Ireland.

    By that count I’m 200% New Zealand, 50% Pom, and roughly 25% Irish and 25% Scot. That makes me 300% the man anyone on this god forsaken planet is which I suppose explains the pot belly I got.

    I am at war with myself, at least I would be if I wasn’t pissed as a newt, guarding my pot of gold, brandishing my bare arse at everyone, and saying “I say… Wot Wot” all the bloody time.

    And people wonder why I’m Nucking Futs.

    BTW, Irish Whiskey is the BOMB. Fuck me. Two shots of Jamieson’s Irish Whiskey and I’m a little tipsy. I’ve never had that happen before.

    Johnny Walker is great as well as Heaven Hill. Jim Beam and Jack Daniels is for little pansy arsed girl’s blouses who can’t handle their alcohol.

    So in the spirit of drunken Irishness down some Jamiesons or Heaven Hill and support the Irish ya whiney pack of pommie bastards.

    Foorkin Do It You Coornts

  8. Why do I get the feelilng that the follow-up post to this one is where you tell us that you married this guy and he is now your husband and father of your kids?

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