collage by David Hickman
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.