Ain't Patrick's Day

Celebrating a Deathday™ (March 17th, 1762): St. Patrick himself died on this day, or did you think those vomiting collegians and parading ballbag pipers were celebrating his bloody birth? Well, you’d be wrong and not for the first time. Something else you may not know about the patron saint of Shamrock Shakes® is the long forgotten tale of how England stepped in to save Patrick’s sorry arse from some awful business in Ireland, only to have him turn his back on the Queen and return to his native land when it plaid suited him. ‘Tis why I am no fan of the sainthooded man, nor his home-brewed green beer. I can think of a shiteload of Patricks more worthy of a parade than he. To wit: Patrick Swayze — People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, when he was alive — giantine basketball bouncer Patrick Ewing, showering Southforkian Patrick Duffy — aka, Bobby Ewing, no relation to Patrick, i.e., Ewing — Butch Patrick, jelly-haired Addam’s Family junior, Patrick McGoohan, sharply-dressed Avenger, Patrick Stewart of the ever-enterprising Starship, and of course, Patrick the Starfish, sidekick of the Square-Panted Sea Sponge named Bob. But the Patrick I would most like to see honored with a parade or honorary street or alleyway signage is the titular "Patrick" in the horrifying documentary from 1978. As our station house VHS copy proclaims, “He’s in a coma. Yet, he can kill.” And with swift and sinister aplomb! I’ve watched this police procedural on many a Patrick’s Day and have marveled at the flatlining coma killer's ability to outfox the doltish security staff in the mental ward. Though Dr. Roget and Nurse Jacquard nobly attempt to nurse Patrick back to proper well-being, everyone else is asleep at the lobotomy switch. In any event, may the luck of the English or Irish be with you as we celebrate the Anni-hearse-ary™ of ole' St. Patrick, who died for your sins on a Celtic cross, as it were.