Anybody can pop a can of Schlitz and get blackout drunk on St. Patrick’s Day. But did you know the historical significance of the ‘Irish Holiday?’
A long, long, long time ago- let’s say 1962- Ireland was a gorgeous pastoral paradise, a land where drunkards and their captive wives could roam the countryside freely, growing chubby on potatoes that were plentiful and guzzling gallons of ale that flowed as freely as urine after a prostate exam.
“Aye, ‘tis a good land this Ireland,” one such ruddy lump was most likely overheard to exclaim, tipsy on potato beer, “’Tis a good time to procreate and fill the land with little Iricks.”
Iricks was the prehistoric term for Irish people, which was later changed to ‘Hawaiian’ and then, after much confusion, changed back to ‘Irish people.’ And the little Iricks did appear… little boy Iricks toddling the fields, little girl Iricks mooning the clergy… There were scores of young Iricks frolicking in the fields… look it was just a lot of Iricks, okay? Being born with a blood-alcohol level of 6 is no easy way to come into the world, but what truly made life difficult for the young Iricks is that their doughy flesh and lack of any parental supervision made them extremely susceptible to the attacks of wandering snakes.
“Aye, these Irick babies is delicious,” slithered one snake, if snakes were able to talk when they slithered. But of course they cannot, so we as a group must assume. “’Tis time for the lot of us to gobble these babies whole, like the proverbial Egg McMuffins, which at this time has yet to be invented.”
Pending trademarks aside, the snakes did attack, swarming through the valleys, the hillsides, the dells, getties and rudimentary sewer systems. They sprang from under pillows and popped out of toilet seats… they crept into nurseries and playpens and devoured the tiny Iricks in a single swallow. It wasn’t long before the Irick parents began to notice something was wrong.
“Me baby is missing,” spoke one red-headed mother on the condition of anonymity, “and this time I don’t think me husband sold him for whiskey.” In an ironic twist, he had. But the rest of the parents had legitimate concerns.
“If the snakes eat our babies who will carry on our legacy of stumbling over cobblestones and pissing our britches?” Such questions led to the first ever Irish town-hall meeting, at which shrimp was served with that delicious cocktail sauce. The townspeople spoke as they de-veined.
“The bad news is that all our children are missing,” spoke the village Mayor with a toothpick in his mouth, “but the good news is we’re saving a bundle on babysitters.”
Savings aside, the Iricks knew something had to be done. They built makeshift contraptions to suspend their children above the ground by hanging them in a harness from a tree, but this only served to invite attacks from lazy bears and ambitious eagles.
Another town hall meeting was held.
“All in favor of passing a law to shoot Leprechauns on site…”
“Aye,” said the villagers in unison.
“Next order of business,” said the Mayor, genuinely offended that no one had brought any shrimp to today’s meeting, “the little matter of the baby-gobbling snakes.”
“There is no solution!” a woman cried out from the crowd.
“I surrender!” spoke another Irishman.
“All hail the snakes and their glorious domination over our dominion!”
“Repeal the Leprechaun law!” spoke a short gentleman in a green suit.
“SILENCE!” There came a thundering cry from the back of the room – and there stood a man twice the size of any man half his size. His eyes were burning, similar to the way fire burns but with significantly less smoke. He removed his tam as the villagers watched him, hushed.
“My name is Patrick,” he spoke, twirling his mustache and stepping to the front of the room. “Patrick Weinberg. I can rid ye of the snakes and your babies will be safe again. But in exchange I want your souls for all eternity.”
The shortsighted villagers agreed quickly, and so the very next day Patrick set to work.
He walked to the center of the village where he then pulled out his flute. He began to play a melody so lovely that the townspeople could scarcely believe their ears. Patrick danced to the shanty as the music flowed through the air. At once the snakes began to appear. They slithered out of taverns and nurseries, overcome with the power of Patrick’s righteous fife. They slank out of homes and crawled out of basements, squilting from behind bushes and slooping from beneath stones. When they were all gathered Patrick began to march…and march some more. The mesmerized snakes followed him with no will of their own. Patrick marched over the hills and valleys, through the dells and getties, and past the Bed, Bath & Beyond. He marched them to the coast, and continued to play as he stepped into the ocean, the snakes following blindly.
The villagers applauded, and Patrick bowed before them.
“And now,” he said, “I want your souls for all eternity.”
The villagers realized what they had lost, and lowered their heads in shame, awaiting damnation.
“Aww hell,” said Patrick, “I never wanted your souls… let’s go get shit-faced!”
A great roar went up from the Iricks and they bought Patrick shots until he achieved Sainthood. More babies were manufactured and today the Iricks survive as hobbit-like creatures – but hobbit-like creatures with children safe from snake devourment. Today we celebrate St. Patrick’s day to give thanks that we are not Iricks and do not have to deal with bizarro problems such as snakes, leprechauns, and, of course, the accent.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!