ABSTENTION IN PROTEST

I've got nothing against the Irish, some of my best friends have the misfortune of hailing from that primitive boggy wasteland, bless their depraved souls.
They are the salt of the earth.
And their misfortunate ancestry fills me with profound sympathy.

As does their chronic athletes foot, crotch rot, insanity, and nail fungus.
Most of which, possibly all four, being caused by the atrocious climate and lack of familiarity with modern sanitary practices.

As I see it, being Irish is kind of like being the disease-carrying parasites in the soggy groin of the armpit of the world.
Poor bastards.
Condolence, boys, condolence.

I actually like the Irish.
It's their American kinfolk I cannot stand.

The first year I was back in the United States, some sixth generation pollock with but the barest connection to the old sodomity took offense at my accent on Saint Patrick's Day and blackened my eye.

The next year, one of his distant slope-browed relatives blackened the other one, on the same day and for the same reason.

The third year I had to break a jaw preventively.


Saint Patrick's day is not a holiday, it's an excuse for drunks, bums, degenerates, and maladjusted heathen.


I happen to speak decent English. Which, on Saint Patrick's day, irritates the daylights out of illiterates and many other Celts, sod them. The Irish-Irish at least can take a joke, fercrapsakes they were born in Ireland. Staying there proves that they have a sense of humour.
It makes up for the many ailments to their unclean private parts caused by skin-friction in a soggy environment.
And is as good a reason for self-medication with John Jameson's fine product as any.

The American-Irish, on the other hand, have no sense of humour whatsoever. They moved out.
They have NO justification for John Jameson, nor any justification for damn-well anything at all.
Which explains why they act so British.


In absolute dis-celebration of the damned holiday, I shall drink no Irish Whisky till after the weekend. Life is too short to pass any time in the company of once-a-year paddiwhacks.
I shall absteem from sampling even a drop of Jameson's.
And avoid all bars where the O'Morons gather.

Bah humbug.

Instead, Scotch. How can you NOT like a nation that DOESN'T march down Market Street playing lousy music, puking, and wearing silly green felt hats? They're so well-behaved in daylight, too!
A remarkable fine bunch of people, despite their hairy gams.


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NOTE: Readers (including Irishmen) may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
Unless you say something remarkably stupid, Paddy.
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