It's interesting how Americans have managed to pervert a holiday celebrating the life, death and lasting legacy through mission work of a saint. We've turned a Roman-Catholic feast day into a gumbo filled with lame phrases such as "kiss me I'm Irish", "Do you have any Irish in you? Would you like some?", "Who's your paddy?" and an assortment of commercial items from cheesy hats to green feather boas. What a disgusting gumbo.
I, however, fondly refer to the day as Pale People Holiday (PPH). It's not a government holiday, but it should be. The only reason it's not? The government has a thing against gingers.
So, I rose fairly early to prepare for PPH. I gathered orange juice and champagne. I hunted down mini donuts. It was my mission this PPH to class up Greenville. If you're going to drink before noon, make it a breakfast drink. So you don't like mimosas? Try a bloody mary (I like mine super spicy with avocado as garnish). There we are standing about on our newly claimed piece of American soil, an accomplishment not so easily attained by our Irish immigrant forefathers. It was prime real estate. A few feet from the parade, a few more feet from the port-o-potty, a few more feet from a plethora of drunken gingers and engineers celebrating pi day.
I was in heaven. And it was classy. At first.
Then this happened...