St. Patrick’s Day with CH3
March 17, 2011
A holiday that celebrates drunkeness and public urination?
The chance to revel in our Anglo roots, the closest thing we have to a Politically Correct KKK Rally in downtown Boston?
The chance to drink warm green beer in overcrowded bars that just happen to have Irish family names hanging out front?
And most importantly, the chance to later urintate in shocking hues of emerald, again, in a public place?
Count us in , Brother!
Ah, what is it about celebrating the Irish culture make us want to drink to blackout?
Oh, it starts off charming enough:
The tacky green decorations in the office, some playful pinches to the naughty co-workers who insist they’re wearing green underwear.
Let’s give it ’til quittin time, after that 3 hour lunch at Hennessy’s, and the office is now decorated in green vomit and discarded blouses.
A sexual harrasment lawsuit is already being faxed in to corporate HR.
Yes, it’s the luck of the Irish that we get the holiday that sends DUI arrests and spousal abuse reports into the triple digits!
The food ya say?
Corned beef, is that what you’re talking about?
—-the slut of the barnyard, just what is this hunk of cow, eh?
Usually appearing in the meat case around this time of year for a crazy low price, you’ll find it vacuum packed, swimming in a disgusting bath of goo and pickling spices.
The barcode grimy and faded, expiration date handily smudged indelible: This one looks like a winnner!
Oh, I’m sure finer cuts of beef are available from a reputable butcher, but don’t bother.
After all, we’re talking about a meal that is meant to be eaten while you are drunk off your ass.
That’s why the long cooking time, dont ya see?
Throw this flesh in a pot, cover it with a Guinness and you’re free to sip away the afternoon.
You slip down to Main Street while the grisly meat boils down to stringy goodness. It’s the magic of the moist heat that does the handy magic whilst you battle the wobbling crowds at O’Malleys!
And the culture?
Oh man, where do we start?
Our fearless heroes, once legends of the bog and dell, are reduced to mere cartoon characters!
I know, I know…….
I’m as guilty as any for being a sucker for The Dropkicks or Floggy M.
Once that mournful tin whistle kicks in, it’s all hugs and Jameson-flavored tears!
But hasn’t this whole punky-Irish bastardization been done to death?
I get the uneasy feeling that all these hipsters who learned to play the banjo will soon be losing the Brit driving caps, growing a beard, and moving to Brooklyn to join the next Mumford and Sons!
The rivers turn green, the bars assign bouncers at the door at 6 a.m.
Secretaries leave work early to get drunk with their bosses, the shameful Friday-morning greetings and shared toothbrushes be damned!
The day has become a confusing mash of Mardi Gras and Halloween!
I blame it all on the booze companies.
Like the master pimps at Hallmark, who’ve shamed a nation into showering Mom with meaningless crap and enduring those bland Black Angus brunches on Mother’s Day, the beer companies know exactly what they’re doing!
But hell, pass up a weekday holiday that celebrates early drinking and fatty foods?
You mean, like a normal weekend trip with an aging punk rock band, hmmmm?
Have you ever heard that old saw?
The one about professional drinkers leaving St Pats to the amateurs?
Yeah, those are the bitter old fucks that just hate to see their local dive get a little business for once.
A true drinker doesn’t give a shit what day it is.
So let’s celebrate this day with the masses, enjoy a few hardy rounds while wearing a blinking plastic shamrock weasled off the skank from Anheuser Busch.
Besides, those college kids get a little careless with the extra jello shot and the change from a twenty left on the bar, if ya catch my drift!
And yes, we’ll remember our ancestors, who came to this great land amidst starvation and poverty, and flourished anew by sweat and ingenuity.
For, after all—aren’t we all a wee bit Irish on this day?
But let’s have a little dignity out there, people!
We’re not going to be manipulated into drinking our selves sick in the name of heritage, now are we?
Until Cinco De Mayo, vatos!