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Come to think of it, the food particles hiding in this keyboard are enough to horrify all but the laziest of housekeepers...funny how I treat my most-used possessions with such disdain. My car practically has to beg me for an oil change, the computer keyboard crackles under the influence of toast crumbs and it's been years since the vagina was in for maintenance.
Some of that is true.
This week we had St. Patrick's Day, or, Rookie Night at the bar, as we like to call it. A friend of mine posted some wacky St. Pat's pics on their FB account which consisted of some drunk guys in kilts and some drunk guys mooning the camera to reveal that they were wearing boxer shorts with the word "Irish" written across the ass. In the background of the the photos (and this is priceless), my father, sitting at the bar, with the "What a couple of idiots" look on his face.
He received a patent for that look in 1978.
My St. Patrick"s Day celebration was a lot like my Saturday, March 19th at 11:30 in the morning celebration. Me, at home, thinking, "I should probably take a shower and get out and do something..."
As I understand it, and I am certainly no historian, the only reason I would be considered Irish is because James VI didn't like my bad-ass family stomping around near the northern border of England so he shuffled us out of Scotland and into Northern Ireland, where we continued our "Piss On You ALL!!" battle cry until famine forced us to America, where someone decided that anyone who had ever set foot on the Emerald Isle must consume mass quantities of crappy beer at least once a year.
We figured that was as good an excuse as any.
Thinking of it now, I wonder if that ancient event sparked my current loathing of "tradition":
King James: You and your people are annoying the hell out of me. I'm sending you to Ireland.
Clan Kerr: What? Fuck that!
King James: You'll eat the same food and wear the same clothes.
Clan Kerr: You're not serious!
King James: Oh, and one more thing--they're Catholic, so behave yourselves.
Clan Kerr: Catholic? Bloody hell...
I've been all "don't tell me what to do" my whole life. Could it be that it's just in the blood? Even if it isn't, I'm making that my new excuse.
As I am writing this, my 15-year-old is scolding me because I am still wearing pajamas. Scolding, from the child who usually doesn't see daylight until well past noon on any day in which school is not in session. Today she's awake, and dressed. Today.
Don't tell me what to do...I'm pulling the Northern Border Warrior Clan card.
Pajamas for all! On to battle!
Sure, the "Don't tell me what to do" thing gets me into some uncomfortable situations here and there. Ever tried to explain to your mom why you don't "do" church, without hurting her feelings? Tough gig. And being one of those people who would rather live on the street than accept a hand-out from a certified asshole has led to a few lean times.
Better hungry than fat with strings attached, I say.
Hopefully I will turn out the way my father did: 70-odd years old, a seat with his name on it at the local watering hole, and allowed to call an idiot an idiot without being lectured by some PC drama-squad.
What else do you really need?