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72 Hours in Dublin: Drink, Cry, Repeat


Now that everyone's decently tipsy, we head to Áras an Uachtaráin—the Irish equivalent of the White House.

 

Ever wondered what the toilet looks like inside a president's house? Well, wonder no more. Just to recap, someone has made a critical error and invited me to meet the president of Ireland, and now I'm in his house, photographing the commode. This is all completely normal.



Ladies and gentlemen, Irish President Michael D. Higgins. (Presumably the "D" stands for "Don't call me short." Or possibly, "Don't ever come back to my house." Either way...)



Here I am with President Higgins. Don't be preoccupied with questions like "Are you drunk?" or "Is he drunk?" or "Why is everyone so shiny?" The important part is that a Maxim editor went to Ireland and met the president of a goddamn country. I wonder if knowing this might encourage the people at Starbucks back in New York to put a little more effort into getting my order right. Probably not.


Things will decline rapidly from here.


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