Nor am I kissing any Irishmen. And if anyone tries to serve me an alcoholic beverage with green food coloring in it, I’m going to punch them in the neck. Sorry if I sound hostile, but I always need to get that out of the way as quickly as possible on St. Patrick’s Day.
The reason is simple — I hate the Irish. The Carver family originally came from England, so we know better than most just how filthy the “Emerald Isle” and its denizens really are. Those people live like animals, what with the blowing each other up and eating sheep innards. Plus: the Kennedys. As my dear departed father liked to say, “If the Jews really are God’s chosen people, then the Irish must be Bizarro Jews and I want nothing to do with them.”
That said, I will be hiring an Irish call girl tonight. It’s my own little nod to the holiday, and involves lots of rough sex and a sack of potatoes. I’d give more details but this is, after all, a family blog.