Today is Saint Patrick’s Day, when America celebrates the non-achievements of its least-valuable ethnic group, the Irish, by honoring a man who was actually French. Normally there would be much merriment and pointless bagpipe parades that serve as an excuse for the police and fire departments of New York, Boston, Chicago, Philadelphia, and other cities plagued by the scourge of the Irish to get drunk and beat the shit out of each other, but unfortunately the pandemic put most celebrations on hold until next year. Trump wasn’t the first Orange Man to ruin an Irishman’s day, but this one particularly hurts as this is two St Paddy’s in a row he fucked with his dereliction in the face of a pandemic. May the devil know he’s going to die a half hour in advance.

So sit tight, gather in a small group or alone, don’t drink any Bushmills or any other fucking Protestant whiskey, and get hammered in honor of the filthy, potato-eating lowbreds and their stupid Danny Boy song. Next year will be the time to order one Guinness and a small plate of corned beef before realizing they both suck and switching to Keystone Light and wings.

And yes I am Irish American. Nearly 100% as far as I know. I can call myself a potato-eating lowbred. I wouldn’t write this harshly about Jews on Passover or Hindus on Diwali. Maybe about the Italians on Columbus Day or the San Rocco Festival. We’ll see.