I have one of those minds that views life through a series of snapshots.
So, when fifty Santas disembarked a charter bus and descended on my favorite pub over the weekend, my Nikon brain took notice.
Santa Sluts, St. Patrick Santa, the Grinch, a Fairy Princess...a bloody Mary Holiday-ween of costumed party-goers toasting the season.
Christmas carolers bearing martinis, if you will.
A pseudo Mary, pregnant and in full Bethlehem garb, took the cake, with a Marlboro dangling from her lips with Jager shot in hand, ready to be tossed back with a pizazz that would make even Joseph proud.
Apparently, the Santas et al "sport" of choice is called hashing, a sort of social-drinking-meets-running club.
We run to drink, we drink to run. (Picture Adidas meets Yuengling).
The bartenders didn't appear to enjoy the infiltration all that much.
"Hashers drink too much, vomit all over the place and end up having sex in the wrong places with the wrong people."
I did notice the Grinch lean into Mary, brush his mistletoe across her expanded abdomen ever so lightly and offer to light her Marlboro with a quick flick of his Bic.
Classy.
A sharp retort of a whistle snapped the hashers to attention and away they all flew to the next bar, like the down of a thistle.
Which-according to the bartenders as the hashers strolled out of sight-is a very good thing.
"You don't want to be the last bar hashers hit. They just trash the place."
Sort of like the thrashing that deer gave David Spade's car in the movie, "Tommy Boy".
The Bad Santas sing a different tune.
Here's to you, a Hasher true blue.
A hasher through and through,
A pisspot so they say.
Tried to get to heaven,
But went the other way.
Drinking down, down, down, down,
Down, down, down, down,
Down, down, down, down,
Down, down, down, down.
Which pretty much sums up Mary's night with the Grinch.
Ho! Ho! Ho!
You have a magical day.
Cheers.