THE IRISH ARE NOT SOMALIS

Having woken from a nap dream featuring Somali food, I searched the internet for Somali restaurants in San Francisco. It looks like there aren't any. Ethiopean, yes, Sudanese also, but nothing Mogadishuesque. A tragic oversight. A lacuna. This more or less relates to the dumb Irishman infesting the back-room at work who insists that Somalis are low IQ people hellbent on destroying the United States, because he heard something that Trump said.

I'm not sure that my fellow Dutch American Ayaan Hirsi Ali would agree with either of them.

Which is neither here nor there. We Dutch Americans have more experience dealing with sub-standard Irish Americans and German Americans than Somalis (fellow spice merchants), and I'm on record as saying some perfectly shitty things about the Irish (especially around Saint Patrick's Day), which mostly reflect my experience with frat boys (not an ethnic group) and people from the Sunset and Richmond Districts (violent inbred drunks who support the IRA), none of which are representative of the Irish. For one thing, the mildew between their toes is due to bad hygiene, not the misfortune of living in a bog. But no matter.

The other thing is that sometimes my accent is mistaken for Irish or Boston, which I bitterly effing resent. Dumb-ass Americans! It's almost like the morons in this country have the only slimmest idea about the entire rest of the world.

Oh wait, that's actually correct.
They do. Quite slim.
Idiots.

As you can see from this photo, I look nothing at all like an Irishman. I am trimmer by far than the senile bastard in the backroom, plus there's that intelligent glint in my eye, instead of a potato sodden dullness. And I'm quite huggable. Rather than repulsive. Even if you don't factor in the obvious difference of brain (me) versus slab of blood pudding (him).

No, he's not a drunken wreck. Abstains entirely.
He's seen what it does to his people.




By the way: Splendid Irish products of note are Guinness and whiskey, both of which make their cuisine palatable (it's a variation on general British Isles muck, slightly different from the utter dreadfulness of English cooking or horror of Scots). One of my favourite authors is J. P. Donleavy. And I'm also quite fond of my Peterson pipes. Someday I'll have to visit the factory in Dublin, if I can refrain from cogent remarks about the Irish long enough to keep from getting punched. No one in all those islands appreciates American honesty. Sad.

Can't say anything about their poetry. Sometimes I can't get their damned songs out of my head. It's a curse.



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