Ramp Randoms: Why St Patrick’s Day Needs to Become Whacking Day
For the last 6,000 years (Creationism, bitches!) the nation of Ireland has put its hands together, usually around a can or a glass, and proceeded to drink itself into an early grave whilst celebrating the memory of St Patrick, a man who was essentially a human mongoose. One day, Patrick came to a sudden stop when he was writing the Dead Sea Scrolls (probably) to realise he hated snakes, and there were two chances in hell of him tolerating living on an island with even one of those slimy, elongate, split-tongued, limbless, poisonous, Jon Voight-swallowing, belly-humping, vampire-fanged freaks. He proceeded to get all pythonomorphist on their scaly asses and kicked his victims to the cliffs of Moher and into the Atlantic to bother Leif Eriksson, or whoever was west of Ireland at the time. Naturally, the people of our great nation were delighted at this development and opted to honour our new, mildly genocidal clergyman with a day of celebration.
Fast-forward to the modern day and we’ve forgotten the true spirit of St. Patrick’s Day: delivering a good beating to someone we consider a lesser being before deporting the poor sod. We replace our blood with booze and our plans with prolapses, but the only beating that occurs is when you end up going home alone, rather than engaging in a night of ugly, inebriated intercourse with your best mate – a mistake neither of you will mention again, but inevitably repeat every year. It may not sound so bad, until you sober up and realise your best mate is your dog. And he’s been dead for six years. Awkward.
Coming to terms with your new-found (and definitely unique) criminality, you begin to wonder where it all went wrong. How can we make this better? What’s the solution to a pointless Paddy’s Day of mindless binge drinking? Sure it’s a great payoff, but what have we done to earn it? The answer, my friends, lies at the end of a blunt instrument. Now, I’m not advocating engaging in random street violence with your fellow man, heavens no – I consider Fight Club to be uncouth! Other people of all denominations are for putting your arm around, singing songs with, using for ugly, inebriated intercourse, and being friends. Neither do I suggest you sodomise your dog. Again. No, ladies and gentlemen. We need to get to those bastard snakes.
As Microsoft forever battles Apple, or Emirates battles Etihad, or Joey Barton battles everyone, we need those snakes as much as they need us. Like a modern example of the mythical Ouroboros, prominence and prosperity needs opposition to become the greatest thing it can be. We people of Ireland have forgotten the snakes, and the snakes have forgotten us. We have grown, flourished even, as have they, albeit in separate worlds, now both species are tumbling toward the unsavoury representation of future humans in Wall-E. No one wants that to happen. We need a reason to live. A purpose. People of Ireland, that purpose is right in front of us.
So here’s the plan: From now on, every year on St Patrick’s Day, the entire population of Ireland boards a fleet of biplanes, armed only with a hurley apiece, and takes off. Each biplane will come with a non-poisonous grass snake to beat for warming-up purposes. If you’re worried about the inherent barbarism in such activity, wait til you see where we’re headed.
Oh yes, Snake Island – a small territory off the coast of Brazil, occupied solely by one of the deadliest snakes on the planet: the Golden Lancehead. There is an overpopulation problem on the island, with up to 5 snakes per square metre. The only people to visit the island every year are a group of batshit-crazy scientists who each wear more protective gear than an condom-wearing astronaut covered in bubble wrap. At roughly the same time as the parade is scheduled in Dublin, all the Irish will parachute onto the island simultaneously. Upon landing, there will be a long, fierce battle. The Irish will smash in little serpentine skulls, screaming ‘Tiocfaidh ar lá!’ and singing the national anthem at full blast. The Lanceheads will administer their corrosive poison to almost every single Celtic warrior, probably singing something suitably evil, like ‘Be Prepared‘ from The Lion King. Blood and venom will fill every crevice of the island as the violence is ramped up to 11. Flesh and scales will be the new flora, carrion the new fauna. Only one side will prevail, and it will be ours. For with the power, memory, and spirit of St Patrick, we cannot fail. The survivors will fly back to the Emerald Isle, to be greeted with massive celebrations, a parade, your (happy) dog, and enough alcohol to flood Liechtenstein.