'tis A Great Day For The Semi-Irish

Ah, Sweet Jayzis, ‘tis Saint Patty’s day! Time fer th' wearin’ o’ th' green!

I’ll be startin’ me day off wit’ a pint o’ Guinness, and then a big tub o’ corned beef an’ cabbage. After that - Tura Lura Loo! - I’ll slap ME WIFE upside her gob and t’row me 26 kiddos down th' stairs, so they'll be gettin' ready fer mass in a proper way. After th' sarvice, I’ll punch Fadder O’Malley in th' mush and head on over to th' pub and meet Murph, Mac, Murph, Quinn, Tommy Fitz, Timmy Fitz, Jimmy Fitz, Murph, Sweeney, Sully, Sully, Big Sully, Fahey, Sully, and O’Brien for a few quarts o’ whiskey. Faith and begorrah! Then we’ll have a grand time whalin’ th' bejeezus out of each other until the blood runs in rivers, I tells ya! Toity toity toy! Then some more corned beef an’ cabbage an’ more whiskey an’ more Guinness while we tell each other tales o’ how, if we was still in the Auld Sod, we’d be beatin’ the snot out o’ whole armies o’ English arseholes. Ptooie!

O! Then th' topper to the whole grand day! The parade, by Jayzis! Won’t it be a foin sight to see all the lads and lassies dressed in their foinest and marchin’ down th' street? Ah, where’s me shillelagh? Another pint o’ Guinness, O’Reilly, and póg mo thóin!

(*Snort*)

Ah, th' barmaid is a foin homely lass, she is, but I’m a married man! Where’s ME WIFE? I want another 6 kids! Ah, ‘tis a foin day!

(*punch*)

O’Toole, how are you? Go shit in yer fist, you boghoppin' son of a bitch! Where’s yer 42 kids? (*smash!*) Ah, Mullins! I thought that was you! Saints be praised, it’s good to see yer face!

(*crack*)

And I don’t suppose you were after forgettin’ th' time you tripped me durin’ recess in th' fifth grade, ya bastard! Go n-ithe an cat thú, is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat!

Jayzis, Mary and Joseph! I’m so drunk I can’t find me own arsehole and it’s time fer me to go meet me 32 brithers an’ sisters who’re on th' police department and me 64 uncles on th' fire department an’ me 487 cousins who work fer the state because we’re all goin’ over to Seamus McCarthy’s house to play th' harp, drink more whiskey, eat more corned beef and cabbage, and then fight all night until we collapse in the street in a drunken bloody stupor. Erin Go Bragh!

(sigh)

I’m partly Irish. You don’t get a name like Sullivan or a face like mine without some Irish blood, but - God help me – I sure do hate to admit it sometimes.

The Irish are just about the only ethnic group that you can defame with impunity. Nobody is holding rallies to change the name of the Notre Dame athletic teams. The Fighting Irish. Try calling some college team The Hotheaded Hispanics and see how far you get. Throw an Irish cop with a larcenous streak into a movie or a TV show and nobody blinks. Hell, make him a drunk who beats his wife and has 12 unkempt bratty children. You might as well go all the way. It’s not like anybody is going to complain, least of all the Irish themselves. The Irish are just about the only group that generally ignores most of the stereotypes people throw around about them. For that matter, many of us seem to take pride in our rotten image.

When I say “us,” I say it with some reservation. Yes, I have Irish blood, but unless I tell you, you wouldn’t know that I actually have a higher percentage of Hispanic, not to mention French. I also have Yankee, which is English in origin, of course. And some Scottish. The Irish is pretty much only pasty skin deep.

So, by the stereotypes, this is my make up:

I’m a red-headed Irish Hispanic, so I must have a hair-trigger temper. However, being French, as soon as you stand up to my temper, I’ll surrender. Since I’m also English, I’ll probably make a very wry joke while doing so. The Scot in me would like to make a buck out of the whole deal.

I like to eat potatoes at every meal, but I’ll have snails, greasy beef and haggis with them. Oh, yes, with jalapenos on the side. I’ll also have a heaping helping of spotted dick for dessert, but petit fours will do in a pinch.

I’m up for just about anything sexually, of course, but would you mind not shaving your armpits? I might slap you around a bit, but later you can tie up the English side of me and put a whip to my butt, so it’ll even out. Since I’m also a Scot, if you want me to wear a kilt while we’re doing it, I’m OK with that.

I think Jerry Lewis is a genius, but Monty Python, Cantinflas, Billy Connolly and the first half of this post also make me laugh. I drive a Jaguar low-rider powered by peat, but never on toll roads. I wear a beret on top of my sombrero, as well as a derby under it. I work for the government, I sponge off of the government, I am the government, and I want to overthrow the government.

Ah, that’s enough of that, I suppose.

(Just in case you’re really wondering, about 1/3 of the above is true. I’ll leave it to your imagination which 1/3.)

(Not the Jaguar, that’s for sure.)

So, I don’t really have much of a point here, but I’m glad you came along for the ride. If I’ve upset you in any way, just be thankful that it isn’t Bastille Day tomorrow. Or Cinco De Mayo, for that matter.

Soon, con mas (whatever the French word for “better” is) stuff, Bucko.