The person who leaves the party without telling his friends is an asshole, right?
For me, the Irish exit finally flashed its brilliance at a post-college networking event. It was the kind of place where young men wore ill-fitting navy suits instead of jeans to look older, and old men wore scrotum-hugging skinny jeans instead of suits to look younger. This was my bleak reality. As I waded over to our glad-handing host, in an effort to say farewell then GTFO, I was stopped by an outstretched arm, just before I hit the crowd of networkers trying to land their own goodbyes in our benefactor's ear.
"It'll take you forever to get to him," the old lady said, her sharply manicured hand on my shoulder. "You have his card, right? Just take off." Before I could object, her hand moved to my back, physically compelling me out the door, which I didn't fight. "There's nothing wrong with the Irish exit," she yelled after me, as the doors closed. "No one cares if you leave."