You see, every year at work, some over smiley entity will corner me in the elevator, slap me on the back with a knowing wink and say "I bet you're excited, huh! St. Patrick's Day? I bet you'll be celebrating tonight?" and every year I clear my throat and yell, "For the last fucking time, Dialtone, I AM NOT IRISH!"
Ah yes, tradition, you have to love it. Scotland....Ireland. Two different countries with different accents and an entire sea between them, yet no one can ever tell the difference.
We Scots have Saint Andrew. Sure he's more the "Eat haggis, wear a kilt and dance the Gay Gordons." kindly uncle kind of guy, who wants to bounce you on his knee after a few drams of Glenfiddoch and less of a "Drink yourself into a coma or until you keel over and die!" type of saint, but he has his place. He likes a "wee dram" of malt whisky and he might flash his twig and berries during a particularly exuberant waltz, but he's mainly composed. Unlike St. Paddy and his followers.
I'll tell you one thing though. Not even the real Irish in Ireland celebrate St. Patrick's Day like you drunken American types and for that I'm sure they're eternally thankful. Every year I dodge that damn parade full of patriotic people who've never actually set foot in Ireland and who couldn't find it on a map, dressed head to toe in kelly green and liquored up to the eyeballs, screeching and making giant asses of themselves. Every year I'm walking home, down Fifth Avenue and get cornered by some rubberized, uncoordinated office minion in a disheveled suit and a ridiculous, huge green hat the IRA probably once used as a safe house - a hat that would make even a leprechaun look sane - informing me it is my duty to kiss him in the name of St. Patrick. No, minion, it is not. The Guv'ner protests!
from some wannabe Irish twat's FlickR pageI think the moral of this post is, I hate St. Patrick's Day. Bah humbug. That would be all.
