Faith and blogorrah

Oh, yeah, it's the quintessential Mick's holiday today, and I've got plenty of the Mick running through my veins. But you'll not find me swilling tinted brew in a shamrock-laden pub tonight. For one thing, even if you came to my house and offered me a non-green beer of my choice, I feel too crappy to take you up on it. And even if I was feeling at the top of my game, I consider this an amateur's drinking night, much like New Year's Eve. I prefer to imbibe with professional drunks, thank you very much.

Also, green beer? Gag me with a shillelagh! Sure, you can tell me all night that it's just green food coloring. But how do I know it's not really ale that's permeated with the essence of Wicked Witch? Ha! I rest my case.

So, what does a pasty-skinned potato eater do to celebrate St. Patrick's Day with no beer and no pub crawling? For one, I celebrated by eating the first good food I've eaten in almost a week, thanks to the awesomeness of my just-as-Irish sister. We ate sandwiches the size of our faces while catching up on last week's General Hospital. Sadly, we were too pressed for time to start any brawls with Protestants, but we did dress Friday up like a leprechaun, and he sang us a lovely rendition of his favorite song from the old country, Oh Tranny Boy. Seriously, that cat has a beautiful tenor.

Tonight, I'm celebrating by watching a History Channel documentary on the secret tunnels underneath Chicago (if I see Geraldo with a sledgehammer, though, I'm changing the station). Later on, I'll take out my Pogues albums and...look at them, since I don't currently own a turnntable. But it's the thought that counts, right? I believe I have a recording of Tom Waits singing The Piano Has Been Drinking that was recorded live in Ireland. Close enough? Perhaps later I'll polish up my Uilleann pipes. Um, okay, that joke only works if I actually have a schlong, huh? Dang.

I'm not big on toasts, but I suppose the occasion calls that I leave you with one. Hmmmm, let's see. What would be appropriate for this readership? Oh, I know!

May your ass cheeks clench that butt plug like it was the Blarney Stone, and may your Lucky Charms find their way into some hot bitch's bloomers. Slainte!


The wearin' o' the green.