Step One, being at least nominally aware that it’s an excuse to drink:
Remember, the festival celebrates the death of a great man, and also has historically been known as fuck lent for one day. We’re doing this to celebrate Ireland but mostly celebrating a day of drinking during the one month of the year we definitely were going to stop drinking. As such, remember that real Irish people have good reason to resent the holiday.
Step Two, finding something green well ahead of time:
Dollarama runs out quick, buy ahead of time next year. But otherwise, just buy green construction paper and some tape, and by 1pm nobody will be sober enough to give a shit. Make sure you have sunglasses, because when you’re so hammered that your eyes can’t focus on shit anymore, it’s good to look good. Plus it makes it easier to get away with puking on the lawns of Aberdeen residents.
Step Three, acquiring alcohol:
There are so many strategies here. The Beer Store, LCBO, and now Loblaws! I’ll call that a Wynne (get it a win/Wynne’s liberal government?). If you’re feeling like you still wish to be culturally insensitive (which I fully encourage, cultural insensitivity should be applied towards white people too), then go for jameson, guinness, harp, and finish your evening at the toucan. The ultimate winning strategy is to acquire a wagon and a keg and avoid cops like the plague. If you really want to be tricky, disguise the keg as an economy size parade float; cover your keg with a paper-mache leprechaun or St. Patrick, complete with a dick that spouts PBR all over your friends/neighbours/local and imported cops.
Step Four, find a disguise:
You don’t want to be recognized the next day/year/ever
Step Five, pre-blackout preparations:
– Three bottles of blue powerade (or green if you’re festive and twisted in the head).
– Six cold, clammy pancakes, or some other grain-based food slurry.
– Four oz, recovery vodka (vodka set aside for the purposes of dulling the pain of your previous hangover).
– Thirty minutes of your favourite porn, one teddy-bear to shame-sob into.
– A bed with an optional puke-tarp option.
– Three condoms, not for actually having sex, but to cling to the belief that you have a chance.
– Your exes’ phone number, for screaming things like “I’m over you, you filthy piece of slime, I made out with a stranger on Aberdeen!”
– Mardi Gras beads (and anal ones too if you’re into this).