Now I remember. Dan Hicks and His Hot Licks! If you just listen to the tune, you'd never know it was about O'Reilly smashing somebody's face. I guess the poor guy didn't really even drink O'Reilly's beer either. O'Reilly was drunk and mistaken.

That reminds me of a story about my own drunken self. Luckily, I'm not nearly as pugnacious as the fictional fellow in the song. It was St. Patty's Day a few years ago. After listening to the band at the Knight's of Columbus, we made our way to the most Irish bar in town. (My German wife being the designated driver, and not inclined to celebrate St. Pat's Day all that vigorously, she waited in the minivan in the parking lot) The bar was crowded. As I walked through with my blackthorn walking stick,(the same old shillelegh me father brought from Ireland)I felt a brief, but friendly grab on my posterior. I turned around and couldn't tell which of the hundreds of people had done it, so I just hoped it was the pretty colleen, naturally assuming she liked my green top hat. For all I know it could have been some big hairy drunken oaf, you never know in my town, but I quickly put that thought out of my head.

Anyway I got a shot of Jameson's and plugged a dollar into the juke box to play some Irish tunes. At some point I noticed my pager was missing. That butt-grabbin' tart must have stolen my pager! I quickly informed my brother of the crime, so he could help me look for the perpetrator. I stomped around the bar a couple of times, but I'm sure I wouldn't have recognized her if I'd seen her. Maybe I was just looking for somebody with a guilty face. I was able to make my way to the pay phone, where I leaned my blackthorn walking stick (the same old shillelegh me father brought from Ireland) against the wall. I fished out a quarter and I must not have been as drunk as I should have been, because I managed to call my pager and put in the number of the pay phone. It was futile investigative method. My pager is always on vibrate, and I could never have heard it in that noisy bar. The owner felt so sorry for us he treated me and my brother to another shot of Jameson's. Of course he does that whether he feels sorry for us or not.

My brother and I walked out, cursing our luck. Of course the first thing I put my hand on when I got back in the minivan was my still vibrating pager.

We had quite a laugh about that on our way home, saying it's a good thing we never found that girl that grabbed my ass. All was well, until the next morning when I realized my blackthorn walking stick (the same old shillelegh me father brought from Ireland) hadn't made its way out of the tavern.

The next mornin' we made our way back to the bar. What with hundreds of people in there the night before, what are the chances my cane will still be there? But sure enough, somebody brought it to the owner and he knew right away who it belonged to.

Now I leave my pager at home on Saint Patrick's Day.