Fuckin’ Irish

Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day, which for all I care can go shit itself, just like everything else Irish ends up doing. Leprechauns aren’t any cuter than any other gnarled Emerald Islander, serving as metaphor for the Irish propensity for gaining vast quantities of wealth by stealing it from tiny cripples. Their beer is like their women: effervescent and silly at first, but quickly turning dark and sour. Their whiskey passes muster—because they stole the recipe from the Scots.

Green is the color of Ireland, because its people are all too drunk to turn up its fields. They were defeated by a potato that gave them a ten year head start. Their most famous novelist wrote in gibberish and their best poetry was lamentation about how much it sucked to be Irish. They’re such sluggards their civil war was put to rest by Bono.

But you know my favorite thing about the Irish? They’re the only nationality it’s still okay to mock in public. Get over here, you dumb cocks! The only day better for drinking than St. Patrick’s is St. Patrick’s Day Eve.

(Also, corned beef and cabbage is saintly grub. Good job there.)