HAPPY SIN PADDY

In the first year I was back in the United States some charming person of the “once-a-year” Hibernian persuasion drank too much and punched me in the face because of my accent.
It was my first introduction to stupidity of a fifth or sixth generation inbred type.
It's a very limited gene pool, and rather shallow.
Since then I learned to not visit bars on Saint Patrick's day.
I have for over three decades avoided the March Seventeenth zombies.

One of my friends tells me it's far worse in New York.
He said something about green vomit in the snow.

Riotous leprechauns?!?

I actually like the Irish. Sort of. 
It's their distant American kin-folk that I consider to be problem cases.
My accent, though not nearly as seemingly-English-sounding as it once was, still makes the buggers look askance at me. Real Irish people recognize it as trans-Atlantic and native to these shores.  So do people in Holland and Germany.  Even the Scots and Aussies, on those extremely rare occasions when they're sober.
The English and Americans, however, react a little queer.
Possibly because they've never heard their own language spoken properly.

On Saint Patrick's day I always make it a point to abstain from feasting.
It's the only way to keep one's tolerance from being tested.
There's naught worse than opportunistic drunks.
Unless it's the local idiot habituals.
With silly green hats.

Fortunately, San Francisco Chinatown is not where one will find many people celebrating a holiday that involves grey-boiled pickled meat and a ball-cabbage compost.

So it's a good place to hide when everyone else goes mad.


Erin go blah.


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