Readers, Beware! Prepare yourselves to hear the true story of Ireland's patron Saint, a man whose blood was as green as the clovers he chewed and whose liver could soak up booze on the same level Kobayashi's stomach fatally puts away mountains of the processed, fake meat we pretend are Hot Dogs.
Although my last name is originally Lebanese, I'm 50% Irish, which innately gives me free reign to praise St. Paddy however I please. When your grandmother's surname is Doyle and you went to Catholic Middle School with a bunch of Irish Catholics from the South Shore and other predominantly Irish (or Italian, but forget those guys for a minute) neighborhoods in the greater Boston area, YOU KNOW THE TRUTH ABOUT SAINT PATRICK! All the names used will be names of kids I went to middle school with, as a tribute to their great influence on my life.
This is the part of my article where I apologize in advance for any statements that come off as rude, uneducated, or too true to handle. I mean no harm; I come in peace; E.T., phone hom--I mean, hit the bars! While there are other venues where I will happily discuss St. Patrick, Religion, and spirituality in a serious sense, this blog today is not that venue. Please do not be offended by the truths I am about to spill. Because honestly, something has to spilled today and it better not be anything alcoholic.
I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but a bunch of satirical, made-up corned beef and cabbage. Without further ado, I present the unabridged, complete biography of St. Paddy as told by the man himself to my great-great-great-I-Lost-Count-grandmother.
One fine Irish morning (Irish=Bailey's in the coffee), Patrick Seamus Coughlin O'Brien went out for a leisurely stroll in the beautiful, rolling hills of somewhere in Britain, just a wee travel from the country everyone thinks he's from. At 16, he was about 6 years into his legal drinking days, and was obviously inebriated, because for some reason he was kidnapped and stolen away to the land of the Blarney, potatoes, and little people who pop up behind trees with the latest missing lottery awards in big, brown sacks. Let's be real, we all know Leprechauns are miniature Saint Nick's who only distribute 24 carat gold to those slumped drunkards down on their luck nestled under the "not-so-picky-about-who-they-lay-with" branches of trees. The naughty list for Leprechauns is filled with those who didn't pass out the night before and the "Nice" list is replete with the aforementioned laggards who sleep against trees.
Alas, I digress. Now is not the time for telling tales of run-ins with winning the lottery, because that hasn't happened. What happened to Pat is A-1 truth.
In Ireland, St. Patrick, like all good men of Faith, turned to the 3-LEAF CLOVER to explain the Holy Trinity to his compadres; indeed, if you're in Ireland with clovers surrounding you at every turn, it is quite easy to get in touch with the Trinity. The non-believers flocked like sheep to their herder, and Catholicism gained a whole new cohort of green be-leaf-ers. Now, you may be asking, where does the drinking come from? Here I am rambling on about Religion and now we we have to go straight to sinful devil juice?!
Yes. Yes, we do go straight to boozing because that's what Americans do. Oh, some serious holiday? Half-off 30 racks of watery, American booze just because!!! Slippery-slope logic fallacy aside, one thing led to another, just like the direct TV commercials where cable leads to you lying face down in a ditch. Americans began praising St. Patrick for having a golden liver as well as some gold coins; thus started the world's attempt to challenge Ireland's patron saint to one-sided drinking contests. The best part about the whole darn thing is this: my super old--however many "greats" before her name--grandma told our family that Patrick Seamus Coughlin O'Brien was a lightweight! He's English, and when it's all said and done, we all know the Irish can outdrink the English.
Somewhere in his grave, Pat is smiling a devilish, Irish (but with British teeth) smile. His soul looks down at us from the Heavens above and is proud of our ability to have fun and enjoy our time on earth. There's a moral to everything, and it appears we've found one for March 17th. Honor the dead with all your heart, and if you're not going to support them beyond the grave in any actually ideal ways, just drink to and for them.
You may not wake up feeling good about it, but they certainly will. I know Mr. O'Brien is happy.