In a society that goes out of its way to celebrate the mediocre — Applebee’s restaurants, allowing the Detroit Lions to be televised on Thanksgiving Day, ‘80s music — we really outdo ourselves on March 17.
Typically, if you’re a celebrity kidnap victim, you get a picture montage to Sarah McLachlan, a Lifetime “Movie of the Week” and an interview with Diane Sawyer.
Why then does a tea-sipping redcoat from the fifth century by the name of Patrick who was kidnapped by a bunch of Irish raiders get America’s biggest cirrhosis celebration?
Chasing snakes out of a potato patch does not give you the divine right to be the ambassador for alcoholism. If that was the case, we should all be passed out in a puke-filled gutter in remembrance of Samuel Jackson month.
Now we’re not going to be the puritanical parent and wag our finger at you for taking an ungodly amount of Irish car bombs and cabbage to the face. In fact, we encourage it and only extend our deepest sympathies to the souls stuck in elevators and crowded spaces with these pseudo-O’Malleys and McFinnigans.
As you go stumbling to your classes at the crack of 2 p.m., your mouth tasting of Guinness, cigarettes and drunken shame, we just want to kindly remind you that no matter how much green you threw on or how hard you tried to blast your eardrums with Flogging Molly, you were essentially rolling out the red carpet for a screening of Rocky V/Gigli/any film with Rob Schneider as the protagonist.
