This story was told to me by my grandmother, and it was told to her by her mother. It took place in the late 40s/early 50s, by best estimates. It's about her father, an Irish immigrant who owned a bar in Queens, NY. Well, one night after he closed up shop, he and a few friends decided to hang around at the bar for a bit and have a couple of drinks. One of my great-grandfather's friends apparently got really smashed. I'll give you the rest in my grandmother's words:
"My father's friend Mickey got pretty cockeyed and I guess he decided to go have a good shit for himself. Well, he fell asleep sitting on the toilet, and so my father and his friends ... (at this point she laughs hysterically for about 3 minutes, composes herself, and continues) they painted his wiggy green!"
What a proud family legacy. Someday I'll be able to tell my children what a pioneer of weekend douchedom their great-great-grandfather really was.