Erin go Blah  

Ahhhh, St. Patrick's Day. A day as unceremonious as can be; in celebration of fleeing snakes, arbitrary pedophilic religious figureheads, and a country whose extended timeline of suffering balances precariously between homebrew terrorism and diseased potatoes. Then again, it's hardly any less confusing than eating ham and searching for rabbit eggs to reflect upon the zombification of Jesus.

I think we should just call this holiday what it really is -- an excuse to go out and get housed because you're going to murder large groups of people if spring doesn't hurry it's ass along. That would understandably need to be shortened for the sake of calendar space. The same could easily be done for New Year's Eve and Fourth of July as well; simply swap out the reason for getting housed to "because explosives are legal today."

Back to St. Patrick's Day. Being half Irish should somehow make the day more tolerable for me, but no dice. A major hurdle I can't seem to get over is the notion of wearing green. It gives off too similar of a "Aloha Shirt Friday" vibe for me. Yet if I refuse to participate, random people pinch me. That part isn't really too awful, but I also spend a lot of time on public transportation, so being groped by random people is hardly a new experience for me.

The worst of it is that I won't even be able to fully immerse myself in the true (liquid) spirit of the holiday, it's only redeeming quality. Two out of the last three St. Paddy's fell on the weekend, allowing for the kind of observance that can only come with peak inebriation. No such luck this year. Between working multiple commitments, I've overextended myself to the point that I'll need to not only do some work tonight, but rise for me labours in the wee morn' of the 'morrow like a fresh shepherds pie. There will of course be the obligatory corned beef and cabbage tonight, courtesy of my very understanding wife, along with a solitary beer to pay my respects to the motherland. However, the motherland is pretty damn far away, which means I'll need a fairly large beer. That and Christie doesn't drink beer or Irish whiskey, so I'll need to have one to oblige her ancestors as well. Hmmm. I think I can already see where this is going. If I end up posting a set of pictures tonight that feature me in nothing but shamrock nipple pasties, I guess you'll know what happened.

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