Going on the Account: An Bhfuil Tu Do Fior?

I’m not looking forward to Tuesday, which is a hell of a thing for someone from an Irish family from Buffalo to admit aloud.

Yes, Saint Partick’s Day is supposed to be a day of Irish heritage, though as I was growing up I watched it get referred to as “Amateur Night” by people who noticed that the drinking aspects of the day  was being embraced bu folks of all backgrounds a bit inappropriately, as in “felony assault” level embracing.

Which could be lived with if things stayed at that sad level.  Over the last few years, though, there’s been an effort to get people to buy beads to wear as you go out drinking.

St. Patrick’s Day beads.

Yes, you read that right.  Saint.  F’n’.  Patrick’s.  Day.  Beads.

When in the hell did they go and turn this holiday into “Shrove Patrick’s Day”?

It reads a lot like the scene from the last week of the Passion, when Jesus chases the moneylenders out the temple.  Part of me would love it if on some bar that night, Denis Leary would pull an epic take-down of some frat bros weighed down in beads and call them what they were; since we’re trying to show a little decorum here, I’ll leave the particulars as to what he’d call them to your imagination, which much like a nasty fate in horror or a good sex scene in any genre is always better imagined than displayed…

As for me, I’ll stay away from stuff that the oltoiri trom will cast away in a haze that’s likely by Easter to find itself part of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.  I’ll have a few drinks on my own, honor the Irish who came before and made the world a better place, folks like Grace O’Malley (of course), maybe put on some music, a little CLancy Brothers, some Black 47, throw this one into the mix…

Because there’s way more to that day than an excuse to get sheit-faced.

And there’s no excuse for those f’n’beads!

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