Okay grown ups, off to work if you still have a job. It's time for the children, who I believe are our future, in case I haven't mentioned that lately. Unhand that mouse and hand it over to junior.
Good morning kiddies. It's been a long cold winter, but spring is here and it's time for another visit to Uncle Bloggy's Story Shebeen. Come on in, gather round the turf fire and grab Uncle Bloggy a cold one off the front porch on your way. No, you can't have one. This late cold weather saves on ice for the cooler anyway. Now then children, who knows what holiday is coming up in just a few short days? No, Sergei, I'm not talking about Belarusian Constitution Day. And who let you in here anyway? I think I hear your parents calling. Now, who else? That's right Sean, we're talking about St. Patrick's Day. Now old Uncle Bloggy happens to be the world's foremost authority on our patron saint so today I'll tell you the real true story of old St. Pat, coincidentally in almost exactly the same words I used two years ago. Uncle Bloggy may be lazy, but he ain't stupid. We'll get started as soon as one you kids grabs me another beer off the veranda.
You may not know it kids, but St. Patrick, that most Irish of fellas, actually wasn't even Irish by birth. He was born in Tenafly, New Jersey in 257 AD, on a Thursday. He was brought to Ireland as a slave at the age of 15 by the Romans who forced him to work in a pizza parlor in Baggot Street until he escaped on the Ryanair 419 to Paris. He was so poor he didn't even have money for the pay toilets on the flight over. He entered the seminary, which is a priest school, in France, quickly rising to the rank of Bishop and taking the name Patricius, which translated from the Latin means "Many Will Dress Like Idiots And Throw Up In My Honor." After his bishification (that's a fancy church term, for you non-Catholics) he went back to Ireland to make the carefree pagans feel guilty about all the fun they'd been having, running around naked and sacrificing goats to trees and whatnot. The pagans, no fools, weren't buying it until St. Patrick plucked a shamrock from the bog, and showed them that it represented the Holy Trinity, and not, as previously believed, The Three Stooges. That was all it took, and Ireland instantly became a Christian, and more importantly, a Catholic island. The ex-pagans immediately began feeling guilty about all their previous frivolity, and that tradition continues among Irish Catholics to this day. The snakes, which were all over Ireland back then and had been having a grand auld time feasting on left-over sacrificed goat, correctly surmised that the party was over, and headed en mass to America where they became bankers. St. Patrick meanwhile, having run out of pagans to convert, retired to Salthill, Galway where he operated a roller rink until his death in 948 AD, on a Tuesday right after lunch. So there you have it. I hope this has been as educational for you as making it up was for me. And as you celebrate the coming holiday, remember St. Patrick's inspiring words, still meaningful to us through the centuries: "For God's sake, man, put down that goat!"
Now you kids might be asking, "Uncle Bloggy, that's all very informative and you're clearly a wise, learned and good looking man. But why do we now celebrate a saint's feast day by watching grownups drink green beer and wear green wigs and eventually get green faces?"
Good question, kids. Here's a better one. "Hey Uncle Bloggy. Can we get you another beer on our way out of the story shebeen?" Answer: yes. And hand me the remote while you're up. I think The Quiet Man is on.
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1 comment:
Very entertaining and as Arnie says - I'll be back for more !
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