With a name like “Erin” it doesn’t get much more Irish (though in truth I’m only about a quarter to an 8th Gaelic). This does not mean I’m all for green beer (and here in Chicago, green river) and all that St. Patty’s Day merriment. Quite to the contrary, I freakin’ hate this pseudo-holiday. “Fuckin’ amateur night,” a full-blooded Irish pal of mine used to say. Yes, indeed. Especially now, as I sit here in my basement office blasting music to drown out the “Duuuuuude!”s and “Hey, brahhhhhh“s of the pampered white boys (and some girls) Loyola students who have been wearing ‘o the green since early this afternoon.
I soldiered years of childhood taunts of “Hey, Erin, why don’t you go get a bra?” on this holiday just fine. However, I won’t put up with miscreants who spend their parents’ money on Miller Lite kegs and stupid green plastic hats. Take your adolescent endeavors down to Bucktown or Lincoln Park, where you’ll fit in just fine amongst all the same ass-hattery going on this evening. Leave us in the northside ‘hood to drink quietly behind closed doors, thank you very much.
Oh, happy St. Patrick’s Day, all. Go lick a rock or something.
Erin Go Bragh My Arse
With a name like “Erin” it doesn’t get much more Irish (though in truth I’m only about a quarter to an 8th Gaelic). This does not mean I’m all for green beer (and here in Chicago, green river) and all that St. Patty’s Day merriment. Quite to the contrary, I freakin’ hate this pseudo-holiday. “Fuckin’ amateur night,” a full-blooded Irish pal of mine used to say. Yes, indeed. Especially now, as I sit here in my basement office blasting music to drown out the “Duuuuuude!”s and “Hey, brahhhhhh“s of the pampered white boys (and some girls) Loyola students who have been wearing ‘o the green since early this afternoon.
I soldiered years of childhood taunts of “Hey, Erin, why don’t you go get a bra?” on this holiday just fine. However, I won’t put up with miscreants who spend their parents’ money on Miller Lite kegs and stupid green plastic hats. Take your adolescent endeavors down to Bucktown or Lincoln Park, where you’ll fit in just fine amongst all the same ass-hattery going on this evening. Leave us in the northside ‘hood to drink quietly behind closed doors, thank you very much.
Oh, happy St. Patrick’s Day, all. Go lick a rock or something.
I give you wagging finger of shame, laddie!