The next person to wish me a happy St Pat’s Day will have their ISP anonymously informed that they download pictures of dogs fucking babies. I’ve slept with Irish girls and gotten drunk in Belfast, which makes me more Irish than 99% of you — and, whoops, here’s the clue train pulling up to the station, and it says I’m not Irish and neither are 99% of you so you can stick St Pat’s Day up your arse.
If you want to celebrate St Pat’s today, eat a raw potato, build a house out of peat and get yourself shot by an Englishman.
And guess what? If you were born in America, you’re not Irish, you’re fucking American. Deal with it.
(Though I still advise American tourists in Europe to tell people they’re Canadian at all times.)
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