So, before I even get into it, I have a story for you. My friend and I were headed to this drinking establishment in my hometown of Scranton, Pennsylvania (yes, home of The Office) and we were prepared to hit it hard with some friends that evening because we were celebrating an unceremonious breakup that was long, long overdue.
We got there early, took our place at the bar and asked for martinis. Almost immediately, we were approached by this odd-looking, burly man in his late thirties with weird, bleached, spiked hair a la Dexter Holland and a big nose, and a twisted scar on his cheek. He stood there patiently, as if waiting for his turn, and as the bartender poured our drinks, the man practically screamed (in our faces), ‘Fifteen shots of Jameson … she don’t even know her name again. She’s got a boyfriend … and he’s always … cryin’ …’
The guy – apparently wasted – followed us around all evening (even after the rest of our friends arrived), chanting his ode to Jameson. There was a lot more to his poem, but I can’t remember it and it’s way too early to text my friend to ask her about the other parts.
So, anyway, yeah. Pink wants to name her kid ‘Jameson,’ and I’m promptly and properly brought back to that night when my friend and I were practically (OK, literally) cornered by this odd, overbearing drunk man who thought that he was a poet laureate.
Good times, Pink.