Originally posted on March 14, 2006 @ 5:30 pm
St. Patrick’s Day is almost upon us. It’s the one day a year that everyone likes to pretend they’re Irish, so they can get drunk and be extra obnoxious on a weekday. You’ll see the occasional “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” pin on the lapels of co-workers and sales clerks. The better looking they are, the less they actually want you to try to kiss them. Believe me.
People like to wear green on this day, too. I don’t. I have nothing against it, but don’t feel I have to be involved. I figure having a name like “Sean” excludes me from trying to be Irish (or “fake Irish” for the day). The only name more Irish than mine is “Irish O’Irishson” and he’s a jerk.
If you don’t know, St. Patrick is credited with “banishing snakes from the island, though post-glacial Ireland never actually had snakes; one suggestion is that snakes referred to the serpent symbolism of the Druids of that time and place” (thanks Wikipedia).
Basically, he was the first Mick to lay a beating on the local rock-munching Druids. Druids were the hippies of that day and as such, deserved to be treated with scorn and derision. No wonder he has a day celebrating him.
There are two different ways to celebrate St. Patty’s if you’re Irish.
- If you’re Protestant, you march through the neighborhoods of people that hate you (read: Catholics). While you’re there, you chant pro-Protestant slogans at the top of your lungs. This infers the inferiority of the people whose neighborhood you’re in. Make sure you have a police escort with you to add insult to injury.
- If you’re Catholic, you blow things up. Pubs, cars, it doesn’t matter what. Just make sure it’s Protestant-owned or pro-British and let the good times roll.
For me, both are wastes of time, so I’ll take a beer with some green food-coloring in it and a plate of corned beef with cabbage. That way, my next-day beer farts will show up on satellite radar.