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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OR MAYBE YOU ARE A HIPSTER
The first smoke of the day is accompanied by stumbling and dog poo. Not for me, as I am chipper and vibrant with hot strong coffee boiling t...
7 comments:
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Poke poke poke.
Stop that!
Poke.
Stop!
Poke poke poke poke poke!
Whack!
Daaaad!
The only saving grace of St. Padraig's Day: it's really easy to spot gobshites from a distance, since they're all kitted out in bright green tat (which is usually liberally emblazoned with corporate logos).
Back in the little hard drinking town that I am from, this was a major event for EVERYONE, Irish or not. Of course, in two square blocks, there were 24 bars, ALL serving cut rate died green beer by the pitcher from six a.m. on, for the occasion. EVERYONE in the "parade", from the volunteer firemen, to the Cub Scouts sneaking sips were hammered. People lined the streets and, unfortunately enough, the rooftops. Why "unfortunate"? Well, its still deep winter in those mountains,and one year, it coincided with Purim! So drunken rooftop parade watchers, of both religions,suddenly found themselves airborne, like "flying drunks", but worse,flying green vomit, which then froze solid promptly thereafter. The bright green frozen vomit would often persist till late April when everything fin ally thawed, the snowbanks melted and, finally , a couple of the town's missing, truly stone drinkers were ultimately accounted for,tz"l.
R
i was a bouncer for a few years in the early nineties...SPD was very taxing...but we did get to vigorously escort (punch) a lot of "people".
SPD was always neck and neck with Fleet week for worst night to work.
A colleague of mine has a tatoo'ed legal secretary that has, for some years, taken Fleet Week off of work. Not a clean living girl. Perhaps we'll see her on "The Maury Show" one day, testing endless foriegn sailors' DNA. Like,"Utumbitingugri, you ARE NOT the father".
I got a happy st patricks greeting just before the day...i think. I said I appreciate that but I'm not Irish and I don't even know who st. patrick is or why so much drinking is done in his honor which does not seem very christian (depending on which sect I suppose). At any rate when it comes to st patrick or any saint I could care less but I don't know how. Should I tell this grinning mick I don't give a rip? No I guess not, Happy St patty's day and may G-d protect from Gorta Mor.
Kevin
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