PART ONE: Getting hammered
My 2011 St. Patrick’s Day started off relatively normally. This is to say that I arrived at York University’s student-owned bar The Absinthe Pub at approximately 11am, clad in ritualistic green, and proceeded to drink several pitchers of green PBR and a few Irish Car bombs. Highlights of the day: Someone passing out green face paint. Someone showing everyone their balls. Someone else painting those balls with the green face paint.
Around 8:30pm, I decided it was time for me to head home. While I was walking across the Vanier parking lot, I noticed a hammer on the ground. “Awesome,” I said to nobody in particular. “A hammer is just what I need for my toolkit, particularly one that doesn’t cost me any money because I found it on the ground right now.”
Had I known what was about to happen to me due to my decision to pick up this hammer, chances are pretty good I would have left it there on the ground. Alas, things are not always so easy.
my kid's name will be treasure 