It makes me sad that many people don't take St Patrick's Day seriously. Some will prance about in fatuous green socks, mention some highly unlikely Irish ancestor and then consider their obligations to the thing met. Not me. I'm a messenger. From God, probably. And if I don't explain this holiday then millions will be spending Saturday drunk for no reason at all. So here we go ...
It's re-hash Wednesday and St Patrick's Day is nigh, meaning that fifth-generation Americans will suddenly announce they've been Irish all this time and go out to Samuel Becket readings or stay in to argue passionately about which among Joyce, Heaney and Yeats provided the world with the most literary description of the potato. See? That was one sentence. It's called brevity, Joyce.
On re-hash Wednesday I like to post an older wrongcard, and today's is one for St. Patrick's Day. A couple of my mates will be going 'ouch' right now but I have a bottle of Makers Mark on standby to send them singing into the land of forgiveness. I know, right?