It’s St. Patrick’s Day, and I’m an American with a bit of Irish blood, married to an American with more than a bit of Irish blood … so, drinking and revelry shall commence.
Or, more accurately, commenced two days ago.
The city of Atlanta believes in only holding parades on Saturdays — and with our traffic, who can blame them? — and pubs are always eager to get an early start on any holiday, so we’ve been honoring our heritage more or less continually since that morning.
On average, the volume of Guinness has probably exceeded the volume of Irish in my blood.
Where was I?
An Englishman, an American, and an Irishman are out drinking.
Three flies come along.
One lands in each man’s glass.
The Englishman sniffs, pushes his drink away.
The American shrugs, removes the fly, and continues drinking.
The Irishman removes the fly and screams, “Spit it out, ya bastard!”
I regret never having told that joke to my grandmother, daughter of Irish immigrants, source of my Irish blood. I imagine she would have liked it. Anyway, I’ll raise a glass to her tonight, and I’ll try my best to identify with the Irishman.