Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day, wherein all people with Irish blood more diluted than a ripoff bar’s house gin can get together and get shitfaced.
Also, there are the traditional parades in Irish ghettos like Boston, New York and Chicago to contend with.
I’m not “Irish” in any way, shape or form except on occasion that I have been known to enjoy blowing things up. I hate corned beef and cabbage, Irish stew (just the mention of which makes me want to gag), their soda bread is inedible and I don’t care much for Guinness either.
Don’t even get me started on unpronounceable names like Aisling, Saoirse, Eoin, Eoghan, Líadain, Aoibheann, Aoife, Meadhbh, Caoimhe, and Tadhg.
Mr. Free Market has been known to opine that if ever there’s a 1,000-ft tsunami heading east from the mid-Atlantic Ocean, at least the doomed English will get to live a half-hour longer than the Irish.
Which says it all, really.
And that goes for their poxy holiday as well.