There are two things in this world I love: drinking a nice pint of Guinness and giving the bird to the Republic of Ireland. So, when a friend of mine informed me that every time I slam back a brewski in a plastic four-leaf clover glass today I am disrespecting Irish culture, I did a little jig.
There are a wealth of opinions about St. Patrick’s Day and cultural appropriation. Some people think celebrating this overcommercialized substance-abuse festival is cultural appropriation, and to that I say a hearty yes. St. Patrick’s Day is about a Catholic priest going full Nehebkau and booting every snake out of the island, and our pub-crawling, green-shirt wearing mockery is exactly what they deserve.
Let me start off by pointing out how dumb that story is. He kicked the snakes out of Ireland you say? The snakes, really? Pray tell, how the fuck did snakes get there? How did they leave? Did they swim? If so, good for the fucking snakes. I wouldn’t want to listen to some preachy Irishman blabber on in that shitty weather either. People should really learn from history that nothing really wants to stay in Ireland. Not snakes, not healthy potatoes, and certainly not the English. They’re hanging on to Northern Ireland by a thread, they’ve clearly never given a shit about Ireland, and somehow these Ulster loyalist fucks stayed kissing Thatcher’s decomposing boots even as it almost lost them access to the European Common Market. You wouldn’t catch me dead in that half-a-country for all the Guinness in the world.
But beyond all that, these dipshits are so protective over the world’s most embarrassingly meager excuse for a “culture.” Guinness? Boiled cabbage? I thought it was impossible to out-bland the English but they managed it. And their best music all comes from Boston anyways. So no, I am not going to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day the way the Irish intended. I am going to get shit-faced, listen to some Dropkick Murphies, and tell everyone in spitting distance about my great-great-great uncle who came here from Ireland.
By the time I’m done with this holiday, no one outside your dumb island will bother associating with it or your cloudy-ass country.
EDITOR’S NOTE: In light of reader complaints, we felt it necessary to include the context that the author of this piece grew up in Liverpool.