I know its delicious. But here’s the thing, it contains Irish whiskey, cream, and sugar so how can it not be? But what other malevolent devils swirl around inside the bottle? Maybe some immoral combination of anti-caking agents and suspension polymers to keep it all falsely suspended together as it squats on the shelf? I don’t need to do a deep dive on Bailey’s to tell you it has all sorts of vile but delightful lab grown items in it to aid preservation of its viscosity while also making me want more and more.

I’m saying this because in pure hypocritical form, none of the above information stopped me from enjoying some Irish cream of my own on a lazy Sunday afternoon at a child’s birthday party at Holmby Children’s Park. No, not in a butt pocket flask. Yes, this is what you do as a parent. You’re asked by other parents to attend their child’s birthday party even if you hardly know them. The more the merrier because you don’t want you or your child to look like a loser. There’s a bunch of weird strangers who share the same trials and tribulations you do which is nice and gives you some connection. There’s solace in group torture, like going to one of those self flagellation churches. You can see it in their eyes. At least there’s ice breakers. Yes, we all agree we take joy in our children and love them more than ourselves but on occasion wish we could sleep more, have more money, and be able to go to a restaurant without ripping our hair out.

Anyway, the guy who invited me, another morning park dad (there’s so few of us) had a nice little stash waiting when we arrived.

Ah, Mr. Dempsey, you do provide a touch of relief in the most hellish of environments. Amidst the gluten and sugar, alcohol still reigns supreme. While the others began personal quests revolving around filling their bellies with candy and cupcakes, I enjoyed myself a splendid, waxed paper cup full of pure heaven. Hey! This wasn’t so bad after all. What a great day!

Every children’s birthday party should include alcohol.

We were in the wake of St. Patty’s Day. And I realized I had no idea what Irish cream actually was. Like anything bought in a store, I suppose, there’s a lot of cognitive dissonance combined with trust. Yes, there’s “cream” in it, but it’s shelf stable, so there must be some sort of unpronounceable preservatives and strange synthetic magic dust swirling around inside. A bottle of this shit can gather cobwebs at CVS for millennia and still be fresh as a daisy upon opening. That’s a good thing, trust me. When the apocalypse happens we’ll be glad to find these gems after digging around for canned goods in the rubble.

Side bar: It just made me think how can openers will be the most sought after tools among survivors after the bombs come down and wipe 99% of life from the earth. They don’t get that right in the movies do they?

The online DIY recipes are all pretty much the same. Wonderful in coffee they all say, but why not just put sugar, cream, and whiskey in your coffee? Ah, well, you can also add vanilla extract, almond extract, a few coffee beans, a dash of chocolate but I feel like we’re approaching espressotini or melted mudslide territory here. A true Irish coffee is just sugar, coffee and Irish whiskey with some whipped cream on top. Anything else is…Something else.

Irish cream exists because it’s a premade batch of something we all appreciate. Up there with all the great combinations. It exists because putting dairy and citrus in the same room together is almost always a bad idea. Remember, there’s a few alcoholic holy trinities out there and this is one of them: booze in some form, sugar in some form, and dairy in some form. It’s one of the great joys in this capitalist consumer gang bang we all unconsciously subscribe to. No, I don’t have to make simple syrup and measure it all out with cream and some Irish whiskey. I can just buy a bottle of whatever the hell this exquisite, chocolate tinged beverage is and quaff at will while I contemplate my life listening to shitty music and wasting my time speaking to people I’l never see again while keeping one eye glued to my kid so he’s not stolen by pedophiles.

No matter how skeptical I am at this odd concoction, I will probably always drink it when offered. It’s a rare treat like seeing a hummingbird or an honest politician.