Velociworld

WHICH IT'S A BRAIN FAMINE

I missed another St. Patrick's Day Parade in Savannah, but that means nothing to me. I was weaned on them, marched in the school bands in them, played a clown in them, puked Mickey's Widemouth Malts in them. There's just nothing to draw me there anymore. I can find a local construction site with a malodorous sump of a Port-A-Let on it, slosh my feet in the muck, and achieve the same effect.

Don't get sidewise with me, though. There's a place for the 180 thousandth Savannah St. Paddy's Day Parade, it just doesn't include me. It's fun as a youngster to watch the local Irish prove every stereotype about themselves, getting polluted and doing a fuckoff on work for the day, and raising money for IRA terrorists, and pissing in the streets. I, myself, have indulged in most of these behaviors, childkiller fundraising never having made my personal cut.

But the Scot in me won't allow me to let my daughters watch such filthy behavior. Instead, we stay home, and I school in them in the history of how the Irish stayed too drunk to grow a fucking potato, and how that Cromwell fellow had a thing going once.

I save all my energy for the 5th of November, Guy Fawkes Night.