My Name Is St. Patrick, And I F*cking Hate My Feast Day
Enough is enough. I have fucking had it with your shamrock sunglasses.
The guy who was on Glee (he’s really nice!) told me about a thing all the youngins say these days, and I think I finally found the right context.
I can’t even.
March 17 was allegedly my dying day. But no one really knows. Not even me. Not even God . . . he was too busy with other stuff and that’s why I fucking died in the first place.
And I’m sorry, but I don’t like thinking about my dying day. Even if it’s up in the air, figuratively speaking. Literally speaking, I am up in the air, because I am in Heaven because I am a saint.
A saint with a shit feast day.
I don’t deserve this. I deserve a feast day, but I don’t deserve to be associated with a day for drunken fools.
St. Valentine has it pretty good. On his feast day, guys buy their girlfriends teddy bears, $100 steaks, flowers, balloons. And all lost balloons go to Heaven, so a few days after Valentine’s Day it gets pretty sexy up here.
I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, even though it got me sent to Purgatory for a few weeks: St. Patrick’s Day is worse than Santa Con.
On March 17, I weep. I weep all day. But God will never let you know that. He likes his little fools. You are his lifeblood, I swear. Like, when Donald Trump dies I’m pretty sure He will die, too.
While I weep, I look down on a world of fools in kelly green playing beer pong (I DO NOT understand how this game is enjoyable in any way), pretending that they’re Irish, drunkenly trying to order Shamrock Shakes at McDonald’s.
I don’t want to insult Irish culture by calling what is done on St. Patrick’s Day “cultural appropriation.”
Yes, Irish people like beer. But so does everyone else. Except girls, amiright????? LOL.
Yes, Ireland is green. Shamrocks are green, and I guess I was pretty into those back when I was a guy, not a ghost. But like, parts of America are also green? And so are a lot of other places on Earth. The pic of me on Wikipedia shows me wearing red, which should honestly say it all.
How did it get like this?
None of you know anything about me. No one really does. NOT EVEN WIKIPEDIA KNOWS THAT MUCH ABOUT ME. I don’t even know that much about me.
It was a very long time ago when I lived, so it’s all a blur. But that whole snake thing? A huge hunk of bullshit. Snakes are cute. I loved snakes when I lived, and I love them now, as a dead man. I never would have kicked them out of Ireland.
And for the record: I go by Patrick. Not Patty. Not Paddy. PATRICK.
Got it? Good.
On my ideal feast day, everyone drinks wine with their friends, eats Outback Steakhouse Bloomin’ Onions, and farts freely. No judgements. No Febreze.
So if you can find the time and a place in your heart that wants to recognize me in a respectful way, you’ll do that today.
P.S. So genuinely sorry for all the cursing! Just trying to say what feels natural.