The History of St. Patrick's Day

Once a year, as spring begins to slowly drag itself up from the icy depths of winter's clammy crevice, our Irish (Scottish?) neighbors take it upon themselves to entertain us with drunken antics and 'parades'... Isn't it adorable? They have no idea parades are for homos.

This day is called Saint Patrick's Day in America, but in Ireland, or Scotland, or Greenland or wherever the hell intoxicated Gaelics come from, it's called Tuesday. Saint Patrick was the invention of Nathan P. Whicklebottom, who needed a red-head dancing fellow to sell beer at gay pride parades. He invented the Saint to try and sell beer while saving souls. For some strange reason, the gay people he targeted wanted nothing to do with the Christian Church, and so, Mr. Whicklebottom went home to his potato-riddled ghetto and got sauced. As was the norm for a Tuesday night, he and his Gaelic neighbors all got shitfaced and started beating their wives. When they ran out of women to whale on, they turned their fists upon each other (not really; they never ran out of women).

Soon, the police were called, and the boys in blue stormed into the projects and asked who started the fight. Nathan, still in his Saint Patrick costume, stood before the cops and said, "Fuck you, Laddie, this be Saint Patrick's Day!" Saint Patrick was quickly beaten to death by the police, and thus was the first hate crime born.

The next day, the hung-over residents of the ghetto woke up, drank a fifth of vodka, and then went back to bed. At around six that night, they woke back up, and saw that their beloved Saint Patrick, whom they'd worshipped for long as they could remember, was dead. A mob, or 'drinkin' posse', was quickly formed, and a riot ensued. Several liquor stores were knocked over, but the police were not involved. Thus, was modern peace-keeping invented; if you see a ghetto and a liquor store, you won't see any police. This riot began to form a strange, all-white, all-male mambo line, which ran in and out of various ghettos. Everyone who saw it noticed how much it looked like a gay pride parade, but since everyone in the parade was drunk and had a baseball bat, nothing was said of it.

Saint Patrick's day quickly became an annual custom, as did wearing green clothes so that you blended in with the colors of the shrubs outside of the liquor stores you were robbing. Now, every March, we line up and laugh at these potato-eating, beer-swilling, wife-beating, condom-tossing gingers as they march up one side of the red light district and down the other. Of course, anyone who isn't Irish is quickly cast aside and pinched repeatedly so that he might learn his lesson. The lesson learned? If you're not Irish, and don't know anything about Saint Patrick, maybe you shouldn't go to every Irish Pub in town and start ruining the party for everyone. Maybe you should just go find a Dave Matthews concert or a hacky-sack game and enjoy that. Or maybe you should go fuck yourself.