Fuck Saint Patrick’s day. If there ever was a holiday to be hauled back behind the shed and shot, this day is a definite contender. Today isn’t about Irish pride, it’s an excuse to get shitfaced, pretend your Irish or talk up the fact that 75 years ago your Norwegian grandmother may have possibly given a blow job to a drunk sailer from Dublin and thereby qualifying you to stand there like an asshole at the bar, drinking your green beer and pontificating on your Irishness. It’s pathetic. Irish pride is not what you think it is. The Irish don’t drink because they’re all alcoholics, they drink because historically, they been fucked in the ass by everyone and their mothers. They’ve been enlsaved, slaughtered, starved, taxed, invaded, raped, you name it. You’d kind of want a drink after all that. Irish pride is a quiet, muttering pride with shades of bitterness. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, we’re still alive and Laird willing, those bastards’ll let us live another year.” It’s that kind of mentality. Piss, vinegar and religious guilt. Add some grey wool clothing, a few potatoes and bad teeth and BAM wlecome to being Irish.

Now you might think, daveb, WTF? Hate the Irish much? Actually boys and girls, daveb was born and raised in an Irish family. A supremely disfunctional one (see: typical Irish family). He actually enjoys it too, just not the family part. He puts his natural ability to ramble on for hours about nothing to the little green man that lives under the rainbow of his hereditary gene pool. He’s a natural asshole and malcontent. Whether that’s what connects him to his Irish roots or is a direct result of them, who knows, it works for daveb.