Good day, dear reader.  Apologies for my absence from our ongoing colloquy yesterday, but as you should know by now, yesterday was the day my people and I celebrate Hangover.  What follows is some background for the uninitiated:

March 18th isn’t just the day you regret wearing those shamrock suspenders. It’s Hangover, the Irish American holiday where the only parade is the shuffle to the fridge, and the only green you’re chasing is the Pepto-Bismol bottle. Born in the blurry aftermath of St. Patrick’s Day, Hangover is the chaotic lovechild of too much stout and not enough sense. Grab your sunglasses and a fistful of bacon—here’s how we celebrate this glorious disaster.

Hangover isn’t just a state of being—it’s a cultural institution. Legend has it that Irish immigrants in America, after a long night of toasting their heritage on St. Patrick’s Day, declared the next day a sacred time to nurse their aching heads and share tales of the night before.  I imagine a bunch of Irish American great-granddads, circa 1880-something, waking up after St. Paddy’s with heads pounding like a bodhrán drum. “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” one groans, “we can’t let this misery go to waste!” And so, Hangover was born—a day to turn last night’s shenanigans into a badge of honor. It’s less a holiday, more a group apology to your liver, wrapped in a shamrock and a smirk.

Hangover doesn’t mess with fancy floats or fiddles. It’s less about parades and more about perseverance. It’s a gritty, greasy, glorious mess of traditions that prove we’re too stubborn to let a hangover win.

1. The Greasy Brunch Bonanza
   At the crack of noon—because who’s waking up earlier?—we stagger to the table for the Greasy Brunch Bonanza. Think piles of rashers, eggs fried in last night’s bacon fat, and soda bread so buttered it could lube a tractor. The motto? “If it doesn’t clog your arteries, it won’t cure your head.” Bonus points if you accidentally pour ketchup on your coffee and drink it anyway.
2. The Wearing of the Shades
   Sunglasses are the unofficial uniform of Hangover, worn indoors and out, regardless of the weather. It’s a badge of honor, signaling that you survived St. Patrick’s Day in true Irish American style.  Sunglasses are non-negotiable—indoors, outdoors, upside-down, whatever. They’re not just for the blinding light; they’re a shield against Aunt Maureen asking, “Did ya really need that fifth pint?” Rock those shamrock shades or the scratched aviators you found under the couch. You’re not hiding; you’re heroic.
3. The Tale-Spinning Circle
   By afternoon, we collapse into the Tale-Spinning Shenanigans, where bleary-eyed survivors compete to tell the dumbest St. Paddy’s story. “I swore the barstool was flirting with me!” “I did a jig with a traffic cone!” The winner—decided by who gets the loudest “Oh, Jaysus, no!”—scores a tepid coffee or the couch cushion that doesn’t smell like spilled whiskey.
4. The Hydration Station
   Every Hangover home has a Hydration Station: a wobbly card table with water, Gatorade, and a half-empty stout for the lunatics who think “hair of the dog” isn’t a cruel joke. It’s littered with crumpled shamrock crowns and a lone sock nobody claims. The pickle juice chug is the dare of the day—finish it without gagging, and you’re the King or Queen of Poor Life Choices.  Some families swear by the “pickle juice chug” and its restorative powers.
5. The Quiet Oath (That Nobody Keeps)
   As the sun sets and your skull stops auditioning for Riverdance, it’s time for the Quiet Oath. Over a cup of tea—or a sad bowl of cereal you dropped on the floor and scooped back up—we swear, “Never again, so help me St. Patrick.” Everyone nods, knowing full well we’ll be back at it next year, because Irish stubbornness beats common sense every time.

Hangover isn’t some polished Hallmark holiday—it’s a sloppy, hilarious middle finger to dignity. It’s the day we laugh at our own stupidity, bond over bacon grease, and prove that Irish Americans can turn even a splitting headache into a party. So, next March 18th, when you’re cursing that last jig and the leprechaun who dared you to chug green beer, embrace Hangover. It’s the holiday that says, “Yeah, we’re idiots, but we’re our idiots.”

Sláinte—or at least a shaky cheers with a water bottle!

N.P.: “Credo” – Fish