Sure and begorrah, Commissioner O’ Hara, kiss yer Blarney Stone, pinch me bottom blue if I ain’t worn green taday, ’tis St. Paddy’s day and ’tis time for all sorts of solemn Irish nonsense to try and disguise the goings on on this day. Yes, it’s alcoholic’s Christmas once again, Paddy, time to chug Jameson’s, time to cover a rag with brandy and huff ’til ye see Leprechauns, always after me Lucky Charms, sure.
I read that St. Patrick, the magical Irish bishop who banished all the snakes from green old Ireland, mother McCree, oh Danny Boy, was not only not a slave, he was the son of a tax collector for the Roman state who may have fled to Ireland with his assets in the form of slaves. And the slaves probably had their arms bound to their sides, thus discovering the River Dance as they stomped grapes in the fields of their lord.
It’s been a long time since any of this drivel mattered to me, remembering people pinching me hard because I neglected to wear green on March 17.
Europeans may find it hard to believe that Americans dye their rivers green, and their beer, and their milkshakes on this day, but it’s all true, Seamus.