The Tale of the Very First Martin’s Day

On the Third Anniversary of the Very First Martin’s Day, a tale to mark the occasion.

MartinsDay

Once upon a time, there lived a young princess named Andrea. This young princess – Princess Andrea, as she insisted her closest friends call her – very graciously offered to drive her two companions all the way from the Island of Manhattan to a magical land, far, far away, named Colorado – though neglecting to tell the aforementioned companions exactly how very far, far away Colorado was. To be sure, Colorado is very, very far, far away, if not very, very, very far, far away, with vast expanses of land – namely, Oklahoma, which is not, as Princess Andrea claimed while driving her late model Mercedes SUV, its engine light flickering for the past several thousand miles, “a straight shot” – with many hazards blocking their path, including bear tornadoes, the Super Size Me-like experiment the princess ran on her two friends, and the really sketchy Pizza Hut in Pennsylvania where the diet Cokes were, for lack of a better word, “greasy.” But I digress. To continue:

They finally arrived safe and sound in Colorado, where, for the better part of ten days, the princess and her two friends had a wonderful time, featuring far too many high altitude, low oxygen, white wine and cassis dance parties – leading to one of the friends having difficulties opening the bear-proof garbage cans around Aspen.

All was well in the Land of Aspen, until one day when the Princess and her other, slightly less sensible friend decided that they’d made it out this far, why not take the late model Mercedes SUV, its engine light still flickering, and drive all the way out to a land that was very, very, very, very, very, very, very far, far away: California.

Quite naturally, the other friend – having read similar such stories in the pursuit of his many, many useless masters’ degrees – began to fear for his life. And so, he entered the magical world of Orbitz, where he booked a one way ticket back to the Island of Manhattan.

“Oh no!” said the princess upon discovering this turn of events. “Come to California! It’ll be fun!”

“Princess,” said this friend. “I’ve read similar such stories in the pursuit of my many, many useless masters’ degrees, we’ve had a lot of good luck thus far, but I fear that should this journey continue, we’re in for a whole mess of trouble, and I’m getting while the getting’s good.”

And so, accepting her friend’s decision but sad to see him depart, Princess Andrea decided to throw the very first Martin’s Day, where they’d do whatever Martin chose – go hiking with Martin, go into town for ice cream with Martin, and have dinner at the nicest restaurant of Martin’s choosing.

Alas, it was not to be. For, on the very morning of Martin’s Day, Martin had some work to finish up. And so, the princess and her friend decided to sneak off and open up a bottle of Chardonnay. This, of course, led to another bottle of Chardonnay. And another. And another.

At around 2:00 p.m. on Martin’s Day, as he prepared to go on the hike, Martin heard the shrieking calls of, “It’s Marrrrrrrrtin’s Day!!!” ringing through the house. This was not a good sign. He found the princess’s friend in the princess’ bedroom, drunk as a skunk, the telltale bottles of Chardonnay littering the bedroom floor. But where was the princess?

A gurgling sound came from the bathroom, and Martin went to go investigate. The gurgling was, in fact, the only coherent sound the princess could make at that point. As she lay on the bathroom floor, covered in towels, her shirt slightly ripped, declared she, “It’s Mahwtins dayyyy,” raising her head slightly so that she could throw up.

“Fantastic,” said Martin.

Thus concludes the tale of the very first Martin’s Day.

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Filed under Notes on an Island//

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