Human beings are not my favourite people.
I need a cup of coffee in the morning before I can even LOOK at another human being. And if I actually have to TALK to them? Well, there had better be alcohol involved. Otherwise, I’m drinking your milk-shake and disappearing like an Irish ghost.
I’m not introverted, exactly. I believe the proper term is “misanthrope”. I don’t mind animals so much (SOME animals, anyway – I’m not going to hug a fucking badger or kiss a wolverine or something) but animals also kinda freak me out. I always wonder what they’re thinking. I talk to animals as if they’re people who can understand me and some of them (the COOL animals, anyway) appreciate the respect I’ve given them. Most of them look at me like I’m crazy but I’m used to that by now.
And it’s not that I only like CERTAIN people (YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. “Romanians”. THAT’S what I mean.) I hate everybody. I’m a Human Racist. If you have 46 chromosomes, GTFO. I don’t care what your race, colour, creed, religion, inclination, gender, age or orientation is or might be, Get off my lawn. *cocks the rifle* I’m not kidding.
Tonight is the eve of St. Patrick’s Day and tomorrow, I have to go out for lunch with my sister. I love my sister. (ONE of my sisters, anyway.)
If being Irish is a race, (and if it is, it’s one I’m losing, which is par for the course and yet, strangely, not) then tomorrow is like Martin Luther King Day with an open bar. An excuse to get drunk and explore ethnography from an urban, street-level perspective. As if I needed an excuse.
St. Patrick was a slave in Roman Britain about 400 A.D. He was kidnapped by Irish pirates and held for ransom, which was eventually paid but not before he’d impressed his captors with his natural smarts. Freed, he decided to go back and become a missionary. Ireland was pagan and dangerous. They didn’t like people either and they weren’t above cannibalism. (They liked people but they just preferred them char-broiled, that’s all.) So to go back was a brave move. The very name “Patrick” means “Noble Warrior”.
St. Patrick is known for two things – the concept of the Trinity, in a handy illustration in the abundance of nature (TOLD YOU he was naturally smart) in the form of a shamrock. And for Chasing the snakes out of Ireland. (Most historians parse this as “ethnically cleansing the Druids”.)
Everyone gets to be special for one day. If you believe David Bowie (and I have no reason not to), we can be heroes, just for one day. I’d rather be a saint. Hell, I already am! I do miracles all the time. I expect canonization any day now. There are like, 18 St. Catherines. I’ll be St. Patrick 2.0. Patron saint of … uh … Batman and … uh … marijuana. And stuff. Board games. Whatever. Does it matter? I do miracles ALL THE TIME, BRO.
When I was a little kid, I was CONVINCED that St. Patrick’s Day was named after me and not the other way around. I was a weird kid. I’m a weird adult.
Fuck off with your green beer.