Happy St. Paddy’s Day! Slainte! Erin go bra-less!
Today is not only the day where you’re supposed to skip work to pretend to be Irish and drink all day, but also the day where you’re supposed to skip work to watch basketball and drink all day. Soooooo… yeah. I’m going to try to keep up production today, but I’m not gonna lie: I have an HD TV, several cans of Guinness cooling their heels in my fridge, and no supervision whatsoever. There may be some hiccups in the assembly line, so to speak.
By the way, St. Patrick’s Day is always kind of bittersweet for me. I’m as white as they come: all my ancestors are from northern and western Europe — not even a splash of blood from the Mediterranean or a Soviet bloc country — and yet I’m somehow zero percent Irish. There are black guys whose last names begin with “Mc” that can make stronger claims to the Emerald Isle. Ah well, at least I’m a writer with a drinking problem. It doesn’t get much more Irish than that.
