Traditional Irish garb. Image ref:

St. Patrick’s Day Is Nigh

Ohhhhhhh snap, son! It’s St. Paddy’s Day! Which means it’s my day. Because my name is Patrick. And my hair is orangy. And I look like a leprechaun. Celebrating St. Patrick’s Day is literally encoded in my DNA. If you mapped out my genes as musical notes, that shit would play Danny Boy. Am I Irish? Not in the least. Like 0%. Does that matter? Not at all! St. Paddy’s Day isn’t about Ireland. Or some stuffy saint who beat up a snake or whatever. It’s about green and drinking and misplaced stereotypes!

The first thing I do when I wake up is crack open a nice, luke-warm Olde English (cause Ireland is basically England, and you can’t dye a Guiness). To make it green the way I’m pretty sure Irish people drink beer, I drop in a bag of green Skittles. Food dye, you say? Food dye is for losers. When you eat Skittles you taste the rainbow, and leprechauns own rainbows, so ipso factotum my beer is now 200% more Irish, and that’s just goddamn SCIENCE. I then don my green. Green socks. Shamrock boxers. “Kiss me I’m Irish” shirt (green shirt with green writing obvi). Green button-down. Green suit. Black shoes, but with that giant buckle thing that leprechauns wear so it’s an acceptable not-green (I also bust these out on Thanksgiving in honor of the pilgrims, the true heroes of Thanksgiving). What’s that you say? The “real” St. Patrick is actually associated with blue? How bout you shut that stupid face hole of yours before I give you a blue eye, which is like a black eye but way worse and totally not just cause I’m making a super sick burn against your dumb color!

Anyway, I’ve now transformed into my jolly, cereal-loving leprechaun alter ego. The Irish may think of leprechauns as devious little shits, but not this guy. I know that the Irish know little to nothing about Ireland and its folklore. Leprechauns are clearly happy-go-lucky fellas who have pots of gold and marshmallowy cereal. Having become Paddy O’Sullivan, the immediate next step is food. Olde English mixed with Skittles may be Irish as fuck, but it’s not the best on the ‘ol bagpipes, which as I know you know from all the bagpipe bands marching during the St. Patrick’s Day parade are suuuper Irish and not from Scotland and Britain like some “experts of history” may claim. Now, given my previous comment, you may be like, Oh I get it, he’s gonna eat Lucky Charms. You naïve stupid little reader. Clearly Lucky Charms, while paying homage to true Irish tradition of marshmallow shapes, is not Irish. No sir-ee. I go legit. That means corned beef and cabbage. Exclusively. Well, save for a rando order of fries (cause potatoes!) here and there when I’m too drunk to use a fork and knife. It’s tale as old as time that back in ye old Ireland every Pat, Donnegal, and Seamus would go to the kosher deli and get a nice corned beef and maybe a knish (cause again, potatoes!). It would be heresy to say that the association of Ireland and beef is actually just due to the Irish exporting their cattle to the rest of the world, and didn’t actually eat that much of it themselves cause it was way too expensive and to them cattle was more farm equipment than food. Even more heretical would be to continue on and say that if anything pork — some form of Irish bacon — would truly be the traditional meat, and the association of corned beef and cabbage with the Irish came from Irish immigrants living here in the US (especially in New York city), who bought corned beef as we know it from the aforementioned kosher delis. Non-Jewish corned beef is often called salt beef, and doesn’t taste like the corned beef we’ve come to know. Point is, saying all that stuff is heresy, and I ‘aint no goddamn heretic I’ll just stick to my “totally Irish” kosher corned beef.

Having filled my belly with plenty of Irish-fart-inducing food (makes your farts sound like the finest of fifes!), I move on to the penultimate highlight of St. Patrick’s Day — the parade. Ireland is widely known for its famous St. Paddy’s Day parades, which legend has it date all the way back to 1995, when the Irish government decided to capitalize on the rest of the world going apeshit over St. Patrick’s Day and give their tourism a boost. I love all the Irish stalwarts — the aforementioned bagpipes, that Irish club called the Shriners and their classically Irish tiny cars and fezzes, and of course all the Irish police riding their Irish Harleys. Just standing at the parade you can almost smell the fields of Athenry, which interestingly enough smell a lot like funnel cake.

And finally, we have the real reason for the season. The one true meaning of St. Patrick’s Day. Getting completely verschnickered. If I’m not puking up a frothy green substance by the end of 3pm I have not done my non-existent Irish ancestors proud. Look, we may disagree on some of the finer points of where certain traditions of St. Patrick’s Day come from. And maybe, just maybe, the celebration of St. Patrick’s Day as we know it is more of an American holiday that it is an Irish one, but one thing’s for certain: Irish people drink a lot and are drunks and the best way to honor an Irish person and Ireland in general is to drink with reckless abandon. They are so touched when you honor their culture by pounding green beers. I know because of all the cheersing I do with the other Irish people in the traditional Irish establishment Houlihan’s. How do I know they’re Irish? They’re quite clearly wearing green, you buffoon. Now if you’ll please excuse me I need to run out and buy some more Skittles. With any luck I’ll be puking in no time. And you know what they say about the Irish and luck — “They’re always after me Lucky Charms!”

Happy St. Paddy’s Day!



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