MY AMERICA: “I HATE ST. PATRICK’S DAY”

Listen up, you green-beer-guzzling, shamrock-waving lunatics—I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with this St. Patrick’s Day baloney! Every March, the whole country turns into a bunch of giggling, emerald-clad nitwits, prancing around like leprechauns on a bender, and I’m madder than a wet hen in a hailstorm about it! This holiday is nothing but a sham, a scam, and a slap in the face to every red-blooded American who doesn’t need some Irish fairy tale to have a good time!

First off, who even was this St. Patrick character? Some sandal-wearing do-gooder who supposedly chased snakes out of Ireland? Newsflash, folks—there were never any snakes in Ireland to begin with! It’s an island! What’s he gonna do next, take credit for keeping polar bears out of Florida? I’m not buying it, and neither should you! The guy probably just waved a stick around, yelled a few prayers, and called it a miracle so he could get free potatoes for life. And now we’re supposed to dye our rivers green and pinch each other like a bunch of kindergarteners to honor this con artist? Give me a break!

THOSE HOARDERS!

And don’t get me started on the leprechauns! Every St. Paddy’s Day, you’ve got grown adults—ADULTS!—running around pretending they believe in these pint-sized gold-hoarders. “Oh, look, a rainbow! Where’s me pot o’ gold?” I’ll tell you where it is—it’s in the cash registers of every bar and costume shop raking in your hard-earned dough while you stumble around in a stupid hat! Leprechauns aren’t real, you dopes! If they were, I’d have caught one by now and made him fix the leak in my roof instead of coughing up fairy coins!

Then there’s the green beer. Oh, mercy me, the green beer! You take a perfectly good American brew, dump some food coloring in it, and suddenly it’s “Irish”? That’s not Irish—that’s an insult to every barley stalk from here to Milwaukee! I don’t want my beer looking like something that oozed out of a swamp. And the taste? It’s still beer, you clowns! You’re not fooling anybody except your liver, which is probably begging for mercy by 10 p.m. I’d rather drink motor oil than chug that neon swill—and at least motor oil’s honest about what it is!

WHAT A RACKET!

The parades are just as bad. A bunch of bagpipe-blowing, kilt-wearing weirdos clogging up the streets, tossing candy at kids like it’s Halloween Part Two. Bagpipes sound like a cat stuck in a vacuum cleaner, and kilts? Those aren’t skirts for men—they’re tablecloths with delusions of grandeur! I don’t care if your great-grandma was from Dublin. You look like a fool marching around in that getup while the rest of us are trying to get to the hardware store!

And the pinching! Holy smokes, the pinching! If I don’t wear green—which I won’t, because I’m not a Christmas tree or a lime Popsicle—some joker thinks it’s open season on my arm! Last year, my neighbor’s kid pinched me so hard I nearly dropped my hamburger. I told him, “Pinch me again, you little gremlin, and I’ll send you straight to the Blarney Stone—in a box!” This isn’t a holiday; it’s a legalized assault fest!

Look, I’m all for a good time, but St. Patrick’s Day is a racket cooked up by greeting card companies and booze peddlers to separate you from your paycheck. If you want to celebrate something, celebrate America—where we don’t need green rivers or fake Irish accents to prove we’re tough! So this March 17th, I’m staying home, locking my doors, and eating a steak as red as my rage. You can keep your shamrocks and your shenanigans—I’m done with this malarkey!