It was St. Patrick’s Day today and I was wearing my green “100% Natural” T-shirt with a graphic of a carrot on it. I wasn’t wearing this to support a heritage event designed by a bunch of drunks looking for an excuse other than, “Uh, it’s Wednesday?” to get completely inebriated but because I have been wearing this shirt for the past three days straight and slept in it last night and the “not so fresh” feeling was not so driving as to make it worth the effort to take it off, shower and put on a different shirt. Perhaps I’ll gift this shirt to a woman with DD breast implants.
When I was in college, I heard a story about a girl in my dorm named Joanie O’Shea. The story goes that it was St. Patrick’s Day and she was studying for a test she had the next day. Her mother called her and said, “What are you doing now?” She told her mother she was studying for a test. Her mother said, “Go out and get drunk!”
This sounded like a total urban legend to me, I mean my mother encouraged me to play in traffic but no mother would tell their kids to prioritize narcotic use over their studies. I asked Joanie in a doubtful done if that story was true. She told me it was! For the record, Joanie took my virginity when I was a freshman and she was a junior and let’s just say for the 10-seconds it lasted, I was a real studly lover. The vision of me with my jeans around my ankles and awkwardly questioning, “Uh, where exactly do I stick this thing?” and pumping away like a monkey humping a coconut is often cited among virgins as an exemplary first-time experience.
The fact that Irish take pride in St. Patrick’s Day is like stupid people taking pride in failing out of school. What’s next? Jew’s having a St. Cheap Fucks Day? Blacks having a St. Droopy Pants Ebonics Day? Premature ejaculators having a St. Shot My Load While Putting On The Rubber Day?
Why would a group of people take the most pathetic thing about themselves, that they are alcoholics whose blood is made up of 50% blood cells and plasma and 50% Guinness and Bailey’s Irish Cream, and bring it to the forefront for everyone to see in celebration? When I have contracted gonorrhea from sticking my dipstick into the skanky whores on 8th Avenue, I don’t get a permit and march down 5th Avenue with all the other men with sore-ridden cocks waving them to and fro. Instead I go to the doctor and get a shot in my dick to clear up the condition. Why don’t Irish lushes go seek help for their condition, instead of filling up all the O’Hara’s, O’Reilly’s, O’Henry’s, O’Hoolihans, and every other bar starting with an “O” and an apostrophe, only taking a break to puke all over themselves and piss on the sidewalk?
People use excuses to justify any vice they may have. A guy likes beating his wife and so he arranges for “Boxing Night” where instead of pounding her with his bare knuckles, on that night he gloves his fists. Someone in the New Age wants to get high and so she participates in an Ayahuasca ceremony so she can see psychedelic worms coming out of tetrahedrons and call it “a spiritual journey.” Another person wants to fuck people besides his girlfriend and so he declares that he has a need for freedom instead of admitting that he is a child whose divining rod is his cock, but enough about E. Van Douche [see “The Manipulative Midget” http://rebelyogi.com/the-manipulative-midget].
Buy your girl flowers because you feel like it, not because flower shops and candy stores got together and created some fake “holiday.” Tell your mother you love her all year because she didn’t totally screw you up by dressing you like a little fag in those gay sweater vests when you were growing up and not just on one day because someone made up yet another holiday because the May calendar month looked a little empty. Celebrate Kwanzaa because you like to wear bright orange Mozambique patterns and slaughter Hutus and not because you are another cheerleader for the election of a black man who has lied regarding all his campaign promises.
And on St. Patrick’s Day, don’t wear a green shirt with a four-leaf clover or some shirt that says, “KISS ME I’M IRISH”; no one has found a four-leaf clover since 1642 and it was later found out that he was only holding two two-leaf clovers together and no one wants to kiss your drooling, booze-smelling mouth. Wear a half-shirt with your beer gut sticking out and if you need to clarify your condition anymore, silkscreen the words, “I AM A DRUNK” on the back of the shirt to avoid the puke stains from obscuring your message.