FestiFAIL: Celebrating Ireland’s Downfall

In just under a week, the world will renew its annual cacklecade of celebrating the famous good will and complete indifference of our nation.  What makes St. Patrick’s Day so popular is that there isn’t anybody who can’t not like the Irish.  Even the English, with whom we’ve had a checkered past, remember us fondly because we did all their driveways at a good deal, boss, like.

The truth is, St. Patrick’s Day is as hollow and depressing as  a Hallmark card that rasps from an 8bit sound chip as you open it.  Any religous connotations are lost in the sea of public dung, where public drunkeness is encouraged by everyone but the Gardai who are only upholding the law out of spite because they’re not given the chance to end up naked in the Liffey.

So what the R520 has in mind is to start documenting everything that’s wrong with St. Patrick’s Day and the weekend building up to it, in order to prove that it’s a waste of money, the only people who profit are publicans and scaldy-faces street merchants, and that everyone who’s a tourist should just Western Union over their money and keep out of our way.  I mean, how the hell am I supposed to practice badminton with my wife in any of the public parks when it’s chugged full of wandering no-brainers?

Anyway, it’ll culminate in a live blog-off, probably by severeal R520-bots, of the ever wonderful, ever inspiring, ST. PATRICK’S DAY PARADE!  So set your timers to ‘Depression’.

So it begins with this:

Oh God, no, please... I NEED TO DRIVE UP THIS STREET!

Oh God, no, please... I NEED TO DRIVE UP THIS STREET!

Eatern Europe’s finest death-traps carnival rides.  Slow time of the year, eh guys?  Let’s haul ass to Merrion Square,  where those Irish suckers just love celebrating the foundation of their religious heritage with irrelevant pictures of Mel Gibson in Scottish attire, nude Demi Moore, and a thousand other Hollywood flunkies.  How I hang my head in shame every year I see this.  It’s embarassing.  I imagine the thousands of American tourists looking at it and thinking, “Oh wow!  They know Mel Gibson over here! Of course they would, he’s Scottish!”  Shag off.

So that’s where it starts.  I may come back to the sad state affairs on Merrion Square, as I pass by there every day, much to my spirit’s demise.  Otherwise, look out for equally depressing signs of Ireland coming to an end.

I hope for your sake this slide takes you underneath the truck's wheel and ends your life.

I hope for your sake this slide takes you underneath the truck's wheel and ends your life.

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