Like the clock work of local Catholic parish churches everywhere, another St. Patrick’s Day has come and gone – with alarming rise of sales of alka-seltzer and innumerable call-in-sick days everywhere. What gives??
Forget Wikipedia, forget Fox-y and not-so-Briet-bart fake news sources. I’m here to tell you the real scoop.
First off, so as not to anger any sons and daughters of holy mother church and that fine Irishman, Francis, (who to his eternal shame has admitted to liking tequila and the Tango, currently sitting on St.Peters throne in Rome), our Patrick – (please refrain from using the familiar term “Paddy”, unless you can prove direct family decent from that fellow) was in fact an historical figure although he emigrated (get it?)from the European continent to Ireland to convert the lusty Celts to Christianity. Some sources claim that he was a Frenchman but that makes no sense to me, given the Frankish propensity for celebrating their own lusty orientations without regard for race, creed or color. Language barriers never existed for these folk as they historically relied heavily on the old universal technique of body language for scientific as well as more intimate communications, well-recognized and received the world over.
Lucky enough for old Patrick, tradition has it that he likely prepared for his mission in a monastery, where he learned a form of international sign language so he could communicate with any pagan folk, lusty or not, and never wore anything but a head to toe, one piece robe of raw wool which not only made him a poor student in Harp classes but also led to confusion while using his own inadequate, celibate body language which, unfortunately, due to his constant scratching often led to very mixed messages among his viewers.
None the less, he is a factual saint. As he had been such a huge success as a salesman for God and the Church, the Church awarded him his own “saints day” which is celebrated in Irish Catholic churches the world over, especially in New York, Boston, Chicago, and, although with considerably less fanfare, in Saudi Arabia, where green beer and green rivers are simply not tolerated.
Which brings me to a very important, if not culturally sensitive topic. We all are victims of stereotyping in one form or another and the loyal spiritual offspring of Patrick have been victimized more than their share. The celebration of his achievements is universally greeted with excesses of brewed and distilled liquids. Not that that’s a bad thing in itself, mind you, – where would the world be without Messrs. Guinness and Jameson and the likes, – but it borders on sacrilege that so many well-meaning folk, in their desire to honor the great man have mixed up the idea of being imbued with the fine “Irish Spirit” with the practice of being over-imbibed with fine Irish spirits and dash about festooned with cheap green derbies, god-awful green neckties, sweaters, socks. galluses, even shoes, and God forgive them, green-shamrock-ed underwear. Catholic bishops everywhere deplore such wanton, pagan abandonment and urge the true son’s and daughters of Patrick to counter such nonsense by wearing full-length, Kelly green, raw wool robes for eight days before and after March 17th, to support the cause of abstinence and penitential scratching. While this practice was initially greeted with, dare I say a lusty response among Irish celibates everywhere, many Irish lay folk, and the much larger group of “Once a Year Happy Irish Wannabees” and assorted Publicans – Catholic, Protestant, Muslim(only 6 identified themselves) Jews and Bahai’s – all around the world, began toasting Patrick with what was soon to be translated into 214 languages, the wish, “May the road rise up to meet you and lead you unerringly to your nearest pub. One good wooly scratch deserves to another”.
As a newly re-constituted Irish citizen (thanks to granddad Denis and great-granddad Philip, and great-great —-well you get it – I hereby resolve and pledge to celebrate the true spirit of Patrick by toasting a tall glass of Kerry milk along with Galway bangers and mashed, and a slice of Sligo mutton, next March 17th, in the very heart of the auld sod, somewhere in county Cork. And should I find myself in a warm, smiling, singing and dancing sort of Irish pub, I will introduce them to my latest cocktail concoction, The Wooly Scratch.
And that my friends is the honest truth. Some things can never be lied about.