 ____________ collage by David Hickman Stephen Gatling A night of drunken revelry, all's a blur, a
wanton orgy drenched in vulgar shades of green.
St. Patrick's Day, another excuse to drink. Like
working a long hard day. Or the ballgame's on.
Suddenly everyone's fuckin' Irish. Wearing green
clothing. Drinking green beer. Spewing green
vomit. Ethnic expectoration. Yes, all Irishmen are
virulent raging alcoholics, who smell like
Potatoes O'Brien and peat moss. And the women, you
ask? Well, most are like this frumpy, red haired
Wiccan at the bar, by the name of Anne O'Mosity,
who might turn you into a psychoactive toad(the
skin of which exudes the hallucinogenic
tryptamines, 5-MeO-DMT and bufotenin, of course)
or simply smash you lovingly over the head with a
ten pound glass tankard.Here come the jokes.
What's Irish and stays out all night? Paddy
O'Furniture. An Irish seven course meal? A six
pack and a potato. And what of the Irish
Practitioners of an alternate life style; Patrick
Fitzgerald and Gerald Fitzpatrick. Yeah, that's a
riot. But here you sit in some putridly tack
yuppie watering hole, as some insipid twat,
dressed like the Notre Dame mascot, does his
inebriated and clumsy version of an Irish jig. A
dancing racial epithet, this beer soaked
leprechaun, a buffoonish caricature cast as a
mincing emerald minstrel. About as Irish as Lucky
Charms. What is this shit? Maybe on Martin Luther
King, Jr. Day, I'll dress up in a zoot suit and
black face, the smell of burnt cork burning
satiric eyes, as I moonwalk across the floor,
singing we shall overcome, a blunt in one hand and
a chicken wing in the other. That'll get me an ass
whipping. With that, I'll take another Guinness
and a shot of Jameson, as I meditate on the
relativity of offensive comportment, life's parody
of life.
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