Wednesday, March 14, 2012


One of my favorite things about living on the melting pot that is the good old U.S.A. is the ability to celebrate different cultures by getting completely hammered with whatever their local poison is. You can bet your sweet ass that you will find me pounding tequila and Corona's on a "Cinco de Mayo" or sharing a stein of Bitburger over a plate of jagerschnitzel during "Oktoberfest". But there's one specific holiday that holds a special spot in my heart, and that is St. Patrick's day.


For me, there has always been something appealing about St. Patrick's that I just can't quite put words to. Maybe it has something to do with how cool bagpipes sound. Perhaps is the fact that my favorite beer in the world comes from Dublin and flows like rivers that day. It is also possible that a couple of "Irish Car Bomb" shots always make me feel like I will live forever or the undeniable cheer of a good Irish ditty. Hell, for all I know it could be the fact that I get to wear my awesome kilt and give my naughty bits the freedom they deserve. The whole point is that i put quite a bit of time and effort into making sure March 17 of every year is a magical day that I usually don't remember.

But this year, something happened. as I prepared my wardrobe and my liver for the upcoming St. Patrick's I noticed a disturbance in the force. I felt like I wasn't as happy as I could be. Try as I may, I just wasn't excited about the holiday, and the more I thought about it , the sadder I became. With only one week to go, I finally broke down. With my head in my hands and tears in my eyes I spoke out loud. "What the hell is wrong with me?"


"Nothing is wrong with you laddie!" Said a voice with an Irish accent. I looked up and in a corner of my room sat a tiny little man wearing a green suit, a matching bowler hat and smoking a wooden pipe. "Who are you?" Said I as I removed the safety of my 12 Gauge shotgun and aimed at his adorable little face. "I'm a friend" said he, as I instructed him to lay face down on the ground while I frisked his tiny little suit for potential threats. "I'm here to help you laddie" he told me. "I'm here to teach you about the true meaning of St. Patrick's!" I was shocked. For years I had participated in the celebration of this day, but the tiny person was right. I had no idea what the hell the meaning of it was. Sure I knew it was an Irish holiday, and that it was named after a patron saint, but that was it. There was no real understanding of why I was supposed to be honoring. I was just as bad as the guys that wear "Tapout" shirts and don't watch U.F.C. or know anything about Mixed Martial Arts. I was the asshole that brings a carbon fiber stick to a pool hall but can't make a single ball in. I was getting drunk in St. Patrick's and I had no idea why!

"What can I do?" I asked my new diminutive friend. "First get that shotgun out of my face, then follow me on a magical journey so that together we can find the true meaning of St. Patrick's. That way  you can enjoy it again". And so we did, we went on a wonderful adventure to my kitchen and got a pair of shot glasses and a bottle of Jameson's Irish Whiskey and we downed the whole thing, then sat down in front of my computer and pulled up the Wikipedia page on St. Patrick's. It was incredible. I learned so many wonderful things which I thought about copying and pasting here, but then the little man took my hand away from the mouse. "You must not do that laddie." he said as he looked past my eyes and into my heart. "It is not up to you to share this information until you get drunk on St. Patrick's and decide to be a preachy, pedantic asshole. Until then each person must make the conscious decision to look for it in their own because you can't truly love and honor anything in life until you truly devote your time and effort to understanding it." And with that he jumped out of my window and disappeared in the bushes.

I was confused by what had just happened for a second, but I no longer felt sad. I had discovered the true meaning of St. Patrick's and could therefore love and honor it by getting wasted out of my senses with the knowledge that I understood what it was and wasn't just participating so that I could fit in. When I looked at someone else and said that I loved that holiday I could say it with pride. I may not have a foken ounce of Irish in me, but I felt as if I could go trough a thousand potato famines right there and then. I closed my window, walked to my calendar and put a smiley face on the 17 of March and then stumbled to bed to sleep off the whiskey as I whispered to the world "Merry St. Patrick's day, and and to all a good night".

That my friends is how I discovered the meaning of St. Patrick's and I hope that a valuable lesson is learned by all as far as liking things without taking the time to learn about them. As a side note however, I just want to make a public service announcement. I found out from my local news that a midget pimp was breaking and entering into houses in my area. I did not have an encounter with a Leprechaun which I guess would explain why he was wearing a bandana over his face. This little foker is armed and dangerous and you should not approach him in any way. Call the police immediately.


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