Top of the Morning to Ya, My Lads and Lassies:
March 17 is upon us, and that means good ole Saint Paddy’s Day has arrived. Green beer, Guinness, whiskey, and corned beef will be consumed while the uncoordinated try river dancing in pubs across the country. In places with names like O’Shaughnessy’s, O’Toole’s, McMahon’s Lucky Shamrocks, etc. Irish drag queens like Anita O’Touchin and Sin-Need O’Contour will be singing songs like “Oh Danny Boy…Did You Borrow My Wig?”or “Whiskey in the Bra.”
My query (pun intended) is, why does everyone think they’re Irish on Saint Patrick’s Day? Suddenly, there are shamrocks, Celtic crosses, and Irish flags everywhere. You go into a taqueria, and a leprechaun statue is holding a green taco. There are lime green margaritas, and your waitress tells you her name is Noreen Sanchez.
From major cities to one-horse towns, people are wearing “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” t-shirts, and none of them have relatives with freckles or red hair. All ethnicities seem to participate in the beer-consuming frenzy. Go to NYC, and there are drunks in the street wearing yarmulkes and yelling to “kiss my blarney stone.”
While I clutch my emeralds, I’ll yell, “STOP!” Give the people from the land of Darby O’Gill their day. The Chinese New Year is over, and they’ve already stuffed their egg rolls with cabbage, so give it a rest. No one wants soda bread dim sum.
Let the Irish mafia stick leprechaun heads in “enemies’ beds” on the 17th, and let Vito hold his horses for another day. You can be Irish adjacent, but don’t take over the day or use it as the excuse to go “on the lash.” (Look it up. It’s Irish.)
If you want to honor your Irish heritage, Google Saint Patrick’s Day, because most of the traditions celebrated here were created in the good old USA. Dubliners aren’t drinking green beer, running to the River Liffey with a vat of green dye, or sucking down Shamrock Shakes.
What’s up with Irish potatoes? Can anyone tell me what part of the tuberous vegetable contains coconut and cinnamon? This squishy little treat appears every March. It has nothing to do with the infamous famine. Instead, it was created in Philadelphia, the city of cream cheese and pretzels. It’s called marketing, product promotion for the mighty dollar: the ultimate green.
So if you’re even considering marching in a parade or raising a mug of Guinness, you’d better buy a 23andMe DNA test. Prove you and Scarlett O’Hara are distant relatives, and I won’t send a banshee to ring your bell.
I’m half Irish, the good half, and I’ll be celebrating in O’Goforth style. You’ll find me sporting a Calvin Klein green velvet jacket and an emerald-encrusted Claddagh ring while I listen to Enya and read the selected works of Oscar Wilde. Later, I’ll be stopping by RuPaul’s Leprechaun Werkroom to judge Leprechaun Realness and Pot of Gold Couture.
If you can’t prove you’re able to legally utter “Erin go Bragh” on the 17th, keep your lucky charms home and watch “The Quiet Man” on TCM while eating an Irish potato. Show proper decorum for those who are really Irish, and a handsome lad wearing a designer jacket might appear at the end of the rainbow with some whiskey for your Shamrock Shake.
Have a great celebration, and remember to me, you’re all magically delicious.