St. Patrick’s Day is Monday but you aren’t going to catch me drinking green beer or eating corned beef.  I love beer (in its customary color) and the corned beef ain’t bad, but I’ve resolved to stop being a dick.  If you’re Irish don’t take this as a sign of disrespect.  To the contrary, I’m paying you the highest accolade I can offer: some fucking dignity.

St. Patrick’s Day in America has little to do with Irish heritage or pride.  Sure they cancerate the Chicago River with 50 tons of green die and, yeah, your local high-minded bookstore stages a reading of Ulysses but, for 90% of Americans, St. Patrick’s Day means one thing: Getting Wasted.  Year after year, dumbass after dumbass uses Paddy’s day as an excuse to haul the token “futball” jersey out of the closet, slap a plastic “Bud Light” tam-o-shanter on the head, and pound Shamrock Shakes until party time.  After that it’s a steady round of “I luv ya’s” and mumbled “they’re magically delicious” jokes until the previously pounded Green Coors return, interrupting the poorly sung eighth round of Danny Boy.

Isn’t it time to stop?

St. Patrick’s Day is the fraternal twin of Cinco de Mayo; the random, pointless, ethnically-offensive, party holidays.  Sure they’re fun but what ostensible reason is there for the average American to celebrate Mexican Independence or the birth of an Irish saint?  These are pretty incidental events in the grand International scheme (unless, of course, you’re Irish or Mexican).  The truth is everyone knows you’re just using Ireland’s proud heritage as an excuse to get fucked up.  Don’t mistake the charitable smile from the “Real Irish Guy” at the bar laddie, he thinks you’re an idiot.  Why?  Because Danny Boy sucks, it’s fag to say Guiness is “too dark,” and his friend, the bar owner, makes half his yearly profit pitching the Irish Pride to your drunk ass.  Oh, and, by the way, every time you give him the “just kiddin’ bro” after you joke about whether he’s got a “pot-of-gold” in his yard, that friendly Irish chap gets one incremental step closer to the inevitable day when he will either pound you in a dark alley or hate fuck your girl (both, God willing).

Face it, unless you’re Irish, celebrating St Paddy’s day in the traditional American fashion is either slightly racist or just totally idiotic.  Real Irish dudes drink beer for breakfast (Guiness, no dye), and pound whiskey at their dead kinsmens’ graves for lunch.  Dinner’s your girl, left home alone while you’re out celebrating “his” heritage. And if, on the way out the door, he happens to take one of your Michelob’s from the fridge well alls-the-better.

At least it’s not fucking green.

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