It’s the Worst Holiday Time of the Year

I hate St. Patrick’s Day. With a passion. A really hot, poking passion. There cannot be a worse “holiday” than St. Patrick’s Day. I would rather celebrate a monthly Malaria Day. I would rather make sure to mark my calendar each March 17th with a reminder that I need to watch footage of a Kleenex-boxes-stage Howard Hughes getting a colonic followed by the entire Friends box set than live the nightmare that is St. Patrick’s Day. I really cannot handle St. Patrick’s Day. So instead, I will be going to high tea with my grandmother in North Dallas at 3pm. Here are just a few reasons why:

1. You’re not Irish. Shut up.
2. If you pinch me, you will henceforth refer to that day (via artificial voicebox) as “the day I shouldn’t have pinched that girl”
3. I choose to drink on non-novelty drinking days amongst seasoned adults not fanny pack wearing amateurs
4. Because I choose to do this, I do not have to use Port-a-Pottys and instead can use indoor plumbing and the big girl potty
5. Unless you’ve smuggled in some absinthe, I don’t want your green drink. Wait, who am I, Marilyn Manson? I don’t want absinthe either.
6. You know what’s fun? Having drinks with your friends. You know what’s not fun? Standing in line or pinned up against sweaty strangers like cattle in hot weather or rain. Wait, you’ve combined those two? Great!
7. Seriously, even if you are like 1/56th Irish, you’re really not.
8. You do realize that on 364 other days of the year, you can go up to an Irish bar and though there isn’t a line for drinks, you can just stand and wait for about 15 minutes before you place your drink order and then when you get change from your $5 back (which would never happen on St. Patrick’s Day), you can set the paper money on fire or eat the coins. Every day is like St. Patrick’s Day. I typed that to the tune of “Every Day is Like Sunday” which makes me think that someone should start St. Steven Patrick Morrissey’s Day where we don’t eat meat and everyone is really clever and wears extra large blouses and waves gladiolas over their head in a circular motion. Alright, next year: done.
9. I don’t mean to HARP (pauses for groans) on this but let’s say that your grandmother always told you that your great great great whatever on her side was Irish and came over during the potato famine, you realize that both record keeping at Ellis Island and the verbal genealogical tree laid forth by a kind octogenarian are sketchy at best, right? You’re Irish like the Olive Garden is Italian.

So please, do not get in my way tomorrow. Do not run your car into mine while trying to find your favorite Flogging Molly song on your iPod after a day of drinking green beer by the yard. Do not vomit your Jameson that you couldn’t handle onto the floors and seats of places that I like to relax and hang out with my friends. In fact, why can’t you just roll this one in with Texas-OU weekend? That way, all of “us” (you will know if you are one of us if you are reading this right now and weeping tears of understanding) can get out of town while you puke on each other and taunt the people wearing the other team’s colors or not wearing something green and you all end up making out in a dumpster and then end the night by crying when your favorite Coldplay song comes on at closing time. Then you can leave and we can all come back and file the appropriate insurance claims.