It's St. Patrick's Day and that means it's yet another time for drinking and vomiting like there's no tomorrow in which to have a terrible green hangover. Continue on and discover the magic behind this glorious day, followed by how much I don't really care about it.


Hello, ye wee bagpipes! Top o' the mornin' to ya! I'm a bloomin' leprechaun! Have any o' ye wee lasses heard o' St. Patty's Day? Well, if I know any more of the Irish dialect, I'd tell you in this paragraph. Unfortunately, after hitting "top o' the mornin" and the word "wee", I was out of material. I swear, if there's any problem with the Irish it's that they're not stereotyped enough for someone to make fun of the way they're supposed to talk for more than a few sentences. Hell, I had to use "bagpipes" and "bloomin", two terms not even associated with the Irish. But damn it, they should be, just so this page would have been easier to write.

The story of St. Patrick is simple. He began as a servant, became interested in religion, returned to his parents, became a bishop, and then taught the good people of Ireland about God and stuff. Then he became a raging alcoholic. In a drunken stupor, he'd wear big green hats and spill green beer everywhere while shouting obscenities. He'd encourage other people to punch people not wearing green on his birthday simply because he liked the color green, the filthy drunk. Also, he was a leprechaun the whole time. I probably should've mentioned that earlier. Not that it matters. I hate this dumb holiday.

Hey folks, here's a fun fact: Assley's birthday is today. Remember Assley? She had sex with all sorts of stuff in my basement. The part of the story you last heard left off where I closed my door on her while she tried to jerk my lawn off. I don't really have anything to add to this story. I just wanted to remind all of you that Assley is a slut. As far as I know, she's dead. And for me, that's awesome. In fact, I may hate St. Patrick's Day because it's her birthday, but I love it because that horrible vaginal wart of a woman could be dead. Just the possibility of her rotting inside a coffin is enough to bring a smile to my face. Wow, I feel a whole lot better now. Here's to the potential death of Satan!


Certainly not my most photogenic moment, but my message is fully conveyed: Big hats are retarded.

Well, folks, that's all. You can go home now. And remember this: Assley, wherever she is, deserves death. Happy Drinking, everyone!

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