Photos and Observations From The Drunkest Place on Earth: St. Patrick's Day in Dallas
This was my first time braving Greenville for St. Patrick's. I was expecting it to be bad. What I was not expecting was the last days of Sodom and Gomorrah. As I, the only sober person on the entirety of Greenville, struggled through a crowd roughly comparable to the population of Ireland itself (and way more drunk), I reflected that getting here earlier to drink might have been a better idea. At least that way I'd be stumbling into as many people as were stumbling into me. I didn't even know about open container laws. I could have brought one beer, just to numb the pain. But no, now I was a thirty-minute wait from sustenance at anywhere that might possibly have been selling beer. Color me unprepared. --Gavin Cleaver
Dodging trash and drunken people took an abundance of soberness that I somehow lost between Dyer Street and Fondren Drive. Traversing through a crowd of Irish zombies to reach the Snoop party also proved to be easier said than done. Every few feet another one of the drunken bastards collapsed, causing the line to falter.
When the last one fell, I looked at her before entering a block of converted Irish pubs for another quick shot. Drool trailed down her half-green face, and her four-leaf clover eyes slowly crossed from heat exposure. Thankfully, an Irish penguin picked her up and carried her away, but more falling drunks soon took her place.
Following the police barricade to beer havens and, eventually, to the Observer's party felt like I was trapped in a twisted version of George Orwell's 1984. Driving down Greenville in his white SUV, Big Brother herded the green-clad crowd with his bullhorn - "Go home, people! Go home. Go home. Go home." - while Snoop's magic drove us onward to a mystical place where music, pipes and alcohol awaited our arrival. --Christian McPhate
Dallas on St. Patrick's Day is like Denton on a Tuesday: everyone is blitzed out of their minds and you're likely to see something amazing happen. When DART pulled up to my station, a young lady stumbled off and immediately took my bench seat and lowered her head to nod off.
On the last a stop, a gentleman lacking his front upper row of teeth joined us and started loudly telling a story about how a "God damn illegal Mexican" got into a wreck with him and ruined his life. Supposedly the guy survived the accident but the "Illegal who wasn't supposed to be here" was killed and our toothless raconteur was ordered to pay the family a settlement. He's going on and on about illegals and Mexicans despite the fact that I, and many others around him, just happen to be Mexican.
Shortly before our stop he asks if anyone wants to buy some Hydrocodone and when a girl asks him what he's got, HE PULLS OUT A BOTTLE AND SHOWS HER. --Jaime-Paul Falcon