FRAT BOY NIRVANA

Now that the long Saint Patrick's Day weekend is over, I can finally piss on everyone else's parade. No, I did not celebrate. In fact I support the snakes in this one. Instead I hid out in familiar places yesterday, counting all the yutzes wearing green. Most especially the cuckolds. In Cantonese, 戴绿帽 ("wearing a green hat"; 'daai lok mou') means that one's esposa cheated on one, the green hat (绿帽 'lok mou') in effect advertising the familial shame.

Good luck with your silly holiday, all you leprechauns.

Three solid days of a drinking binge.

Puking frat rats.


Saint Patrick's Day is a holiday primarily for folks who have a small percentage of Irish blood, if any, and are mostly male and stupid.
Many Irish people do not celebrate it much.


Normally I work on Sundays, but because the boss is on a business trip, I will be opening four days this week. He decided that having me work six days in a row would lead to bloodshed.


Lunch yesterday: fish flavour eggplant and rice. 魚香茄子飯 ('yü heung ke ji faan'). Cup of milk tea. Followed by a smoke; flue-cured leaf in an old Dutch bulldog. After that was over, a snackipoo: a small old wife cake (老婆餅 'lo pou beng') and another cup of milk tea.

After which I smoked flue-cured leaf in a Peterson pot, shape 606, which has been with me for a long time. Peterson pipes are from Dublin.
So in a way that was Saint Patrick-ish.

No alcohol. No jigs. No stupid behaviour.
Nor any need for Beano(®).
No cabbage.




My ancestry includes no Irish blood, my family heritage is severe Protestant. Because of medicine I take, I have to avoid alcohol for at least a year.
And I've always been somewhat hypocritical in any case.
So I'll sneer at anybody else's drunken excess.
As well as their hangovers.
Damned louts.

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