Happy St. Patrick's Day, MacPeeps! My bonnie ol' grandmother, who hailed from County Cork, would sing "Danny Boy" in her thickest brogue, wear monochromatic green, pass out paper shamrocks, drink a bottle of Hennessy, kiss way too many strangers, and call it a day. Jeez. As much as I adored Granny, let's not get nuts. I'd NEVER speak with a brogue. (That's the geisha side of the family rearing its pasty-faced head.)
However, I'm happy to share some of the chicest ways to celebrate this side of the Blarney Stone. No doubt they'll give scads of cheap "Kiss-Me-I'm-Irish" buttons a bling-y run for their money. Take note and break out the Dom ... let's save the Hennessy for Granny. Bless her wee soul.
Pick me up in this hot hunk o' steel and I'll DEF let you kiss me. (Once.)
Hand over the title and keys? Baby, IT'S ON. (Oh yeah.)
Even Debbie Harry clones watch the parade in holiday-appropriate garb ...
just make mine mink. Please and thank you.
Pre-parade festivities go well with the mink. (Hint, hint.)
Start spreadin' green cheer (as in Benjamins, you big boozer) 'cuz this is
the ONLY post-parade spot the spirit-of-the-day would approve of.
How head-to-toe green is really done ... size 0, of course.
Courtesy Elie O'Saab.
Oh, my, what big emeralds you have! If you're packin' 206 carats
of this kinda' heat, rest assured you'll get lucky. V-e-r-y lucky.
Here's the ideal spot to give me that big-ass emerald. RENT. IT. OUT.
Why would Erin go braless when wench-wear's so much fun? (Especially after an
emerald the size of Kilkenny.) Get ready to dig for my pot of gold.
Keep it flowin' Papi ... I might even bust-a jig.
Irish lads and lassies can't resist cake pops as enticing as these ...
until the real dessert is served. (We ain't talkin' Baileys.)
No words except ... GIMME WHAT'S UNDER THAT KILT.
You luscious little leprechaun.
When I come out from under the above-mentioned kilt.
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