I know, I know… all of you are Irish. That’s the exact thing that went through your mind when you read the
subject line: ‘Hey! I’m Irish! This is going to be so good, and if it’s not, I can get offended!’.
Secret Time again, laddie- you’re not Irish. No matter how many ’study trips’ you took to Dublin while spending that semester in Europe, no matter how much you drank that one time at that frat party, no matter how many times your grandfather told you about how his great-grandfather loved corned beef and Jameson’s, you’re not Irish.
Seriously, think about it. If every person in America who said they were Irish actually was, (insert drunk joke here).
And, please, before you go hitting the comment button to complain and possibly post a hilarious scanned image of your 6th grade genealogy project, know that I’m just like you. I have the most Irish name possible (Colleen Siobhan Seamus O’Malley IRA Pot O’ Gold Bushmills Sullivan Branagh), and yet I still feel the need to lie about when my grandfather came to this country, and rationalize my drinking problem as a cultural connection (like Kwanzaa).
If you are sitting at your desk right now, holding your esoterically humourous coffee mug to your lips and you are saying, ‘Well, clearly we all do this because we all LOVE Irish People!’, here’s a quick history lesson for you: back in the day, the only people lower than the Irish were black people. The reason we all proudly proclaim the inkling of Irish heritage in us is because the Irish are oppressed (but not in the bad way, like actual minorities), and the stereotypes associated with them are all things we do at parties. In America, being something ELSE is important; so important, we still haven’t learned that asking Asian people ‘Where are you from?’ might be offensive because we would ask EVERYONE that question if accents were somehow passed down genetically like webbed toes.
Saying you are Irish allows you to occasionally get pissed off at someone for being racist (even though you are pasty fucking white and so privileged you know that caviar is a real thing and quinceaneras are just bat mitzvah knock-offs), and it allows you to drink a lot and have everyone think it’s funny.
But you don’t actually like Irish People. Ladies, if you met a real live Irish guy right now, you would hate him because he is either too forward and perverted, or too much of an a-hole to appear even remotely attractive. Dudes, the Irish guys you would meet would inevitably end up giving you a list of reasons why America sucks, which would piss you off and cause a bar fight. And don’t even get me started on Irish chicks (they have no idea how to use public transportation, and the fact that they are not all red heads with freckles and incredible knitting skills is just fucking disappointing). Most of the people that say they are Irish probably have never met a real, live, dirty-throated Irish Person, and they probably never will. Which is great for them because, as I said, if they ever did, they would be appalled to think they share even the remotest blood tie to anyone in that country.
Of course, I remain the exception. I love Irish People.
I love Irish People for the obvious reasons: they do tend to drink a lot, they’re loud and obnoxious, and they’ve divided their country up just because some people don’t like necco wafers and shaking hands with strangers. But I also love Irish People because they are amazingly, eerily friendly. They love and own the stereotypes about them (I love the face Irish People make when you tell them you know an Irish person who doesn’t drink- hilarious!). They have a holiday based solely on drinking that is celebrated around the world with parades. They built the Titanic.
Also, their mythology is severely fucked.
I love Irish People so much, when I meet an Irish person, I don’t even tell them I’m Irish. I wait till they ask me my last name, and let them embrace me in their own warm, 80 proof way. I ask them questions about what it was like growing up in Ireland, and what they remember about the bombings. I also freely give them oral sex whenever possible.
Just kidding. It would be rude to ask about the bombings.
Oh, also, I’m sorry I left you all high & dry there for a few days, but know that I am always thinking of you. Just the other day, I wrote the following on the whiteboard in my apartment: Cervical Exams, Vagina Dentata, Recycling.
There’s so much for us to look forward to!
i lolled.
Can I become a contributor to your blog? I have so many things only I like. Like the smell of my own armpits.
I am sure that a guest blog could be arranged.
Your name is beautiful… i believe my great grandmother shared the same name… minus the IRA