In a recent report out of Boston, local student Rebecca O’Connor’s ratio of blood to beer was close to half and half.

“It’ssssss good to be IRISH,” O’Connor, who was 1/16th Irish, commented as Busch Lite coursed through her bloodstream. “I feellike the queen of beer. And also, like a sexyyy leprechaun. You know whaddimean? WOOOOHOOOO!”

“Anyone know where the BEER went? I’M THRISTYYY!” slurred O’Connor, whose breath would shatter a breathalyzer. “They should give meeeeee alllllllthebeer."

“I’m an IRISH LASSIEEEEE,” said O’Connor, whose distant Irish ancestors would be appalled by her low tolerance. "I’m like if there was a baby! Made of Ireland. UGH my stomachhh hurtssssss.”

“Kissmeeeee I’m Irish,” O’Connor concluded, puckering up to an empty keg which she had slowly but steadily drained over the course of the day. “MWAH. MWAH. Who hassacigarette? Let’s jusssst all relax a little-oh-FUCK-I think I’m gonna YAK.”

At press time, O’Connor was hoping she’d sober up by 4/20.

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