Reflections on My Irish American Background

Being Irish is fucking frosted lucky bullshit.

Half the time, people make these cutesy assumptions about everything, like “luck of the Irish. blarney stones, little stone huts and rainbows.”

It’s like being descended from Hummel figurines. It’s like people ask you what’s wrong if you’re not wearing a five inch think white sweater. The rest of the time, it’s all about being a drunk. Which is the sort of sweeping cultural stereotype that only gets worse when you see how fucking true it is. How and why are Irish guys genetically programmed to booze themselves useless? What sort of Darwinian principal was at work?

And, yeah, at least there’s the IRA, which is kind of cool because it’s a successful terrorist organization that had its greatest successes when it went out of its way to not kill people, but that doesn’t excuse the hundreds of years England spent treating Ireland as a “Subjugation and genocide for Dummies” test case. The literary association is nice until you actually examine it.

Yeats and Wilde were really as English as bad teeth, and James Joyce wrote the most overrated and under-finished book of all time. And Samuel Beckett’s reputation rests way more on his haircut than his writings and that motherfucker fled to France as soon as he had two cutesy, booze soaked Irish coins to rub together.

And, to top it all off, fucking Bono.


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