A Black Day for the Irish
In case some of you are wondering why I didn’t allow your good wishes for the day to appear in Comments, it’s because I consider the slave Sucellos, malignant cultural assassin and papal cat’s-paw, to be the worst thing that ever happened to Ireland in all the millennia of its existence.
Slave boy sneaks in, starts preaching against Paganism, which everyone was happily practicing, realizes he’d better follow the pope’s instructions, which were to suborn, substitute and subvert. "Yes," he told everyone, "you’ll still worship your gods and goddesses, only we’ll have different names for them. Same holydays, except now the Church will run them. As for your quaint little folk practices, sure, why not, if they make you happy, they don’t mean a darn thing."
Pity of it is, it worked, the Irish being an easy-going race. And so the shackles of Rome were locked upon us, and remain to this day.
As for the "celebrations", parades and suchlike: it gives me no joy to see the green-painted faces, wigs, shamrock stickers, etc. It makes our proud and noble race look like the grinning, shuckin’, jivin’ Stepin Fetchits of Europe.
And if I hear "Danny Boy" one more time I’m going to blast the singer off the face of the earth. It was written by a maudlin, untalented ENGLISHMAN who had never been to Ireland in his life, and I hope he fries in hell for it.
So instead I celebrate Pan-Celtic Day. I listen to real Celtic music, perform real rituals, hiss and spit and claw at the fat smug prelates like Egan of NYC and the beery politicos and old harps prancing up Fifth Avenue, and in general grieve for the trivialization of our true and ancient ways.
Who’s with me? I know the Hamill boys (Denis and Pete), my long-ago childhood neighbors in Brooklyn, are...and they may even be more pissed off than I am. On second thought, nah..