Pog Mi Hone, Shilaeli Huggers.

Woo-hoo... it's St. Patrick's Day, and I don't give a good goddamn. It's not like I have anything specifically against the Irish, whether or not they are flame-topped or raven-haired. I've known some fun ones, and had an evening or two tippling with the leprechauns. So sure... why not? Erin-freakin'-go-braugh. If you need an easy excuse to get pissed, then have at it. Just don't forget to eat your taters before you do. I don't want to be plagued by the smell of vomit wherever you choose to do your reveling. And keep your little fists by your side, because when I go out I like to kick back and relax. I'm not looking to get inadvertently spat upon, or wet down by the whiskey-soaked sweat flying off of your reddened face.

But while we are on the subject of this all-important day, why don't you help me figure out why I should care about your tribal ceremonies? Why don't you explain why people here in the 'Burgh act as if it is some type of national holiday? You're the only white clan that tries to make a big deal of your special day. Inevitably some mick is going to ask me why I'm not wearing green, as if I've committed some type of Lenten slur. When I respond that I'm not Irish, I almost unfailingly hear the retort- "No, you know that everyone is Irish today". What gives? Is it like being birthed from a Hebrew pussy? Do I not have a choice in my affiliations? Do I have to do a riverdance once a year during March?

Here in Pittsburgh we don't get a hard-on for Black History Month, or Columbus, or even Fasnacht Day (look it the hell up, ignoramus). Yet we have to close downtown on a perfectly nice Saturday just to let drunks parade through the streets. And as if that wasn't enough, our favorite bars are jam-packed with idiots and airheads with ridiculous hats for at least twenty minutes during the evening, as they make their way through their insane bar-crawls. Can't we simply merge this nonsense with some Steeler Sunday? That way we don't have to waste a prime time night on a bunch of irritatingly exuberant weekend warriors. Actually, there are plenty of pubs where they like this sort of thing- drink your crappy green beer and cheap blended bracken water elsewhere.

Alas, maybe I am being a bit unfair. After all they aren't a universally bad-looking bunch. One-in-ten might actually serve as a crude sort of eye candy. And they've certainly had a big impact on the region. David Lawrence, Frank J. Gallagher, Tom Murphy, Bob O'Connor, Dan Rooney (Obama's Ambassador to Ireland, fer Christ's-sake!), Luke Ravenstahl- the list of prominent Irish local politicos is seemingly never ending. Hell, the Scots-Irish made Appalachia what it is today, in all it's four-leafed clover glory. Of course that becomes a dubious honor when one has a close look at the back roads of West Virginia and Kentucky... but what the hell. Let your freak flag fly high today.

Never mind that they've already despoiled downtown (in what has been reported as the nation's second-largest annual celebration of the homeland). Most of the drunk drivers have already been released from county by now. But I imagine they still have something left in their tank. They've gotten their fortification through their fried fish sandwiches, deviled crabs, and hardboiled eggs. Tonight you are sure to hear, "let's do a freakin' Car Bomb!!!" That's a cry that is rather appropriately uttered by this class of folk, especially those from the Northern part of the island across the sea. The rock-bottom truth is that I like all of you fine. And at least the stench of garlic is absent until St. Joseph's Day.