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Shut up fake Irish band in fake Irish bar! Shut up with your quaint 'beggorah's and your insipid conflation of homosexuality and pederasty, your determined declarations that none of you have any Irish blood or remotely even a kissing distance connection to Ireland and remain an Irish band, and shut up some more until your can tell your joke without arguing amongst yourselves whether it was Oscar Wilde or James Joyce and then trip all over the punch-line anyway! Shut! Up!
And shut up Mr. Oirisch Bartender with your put on accent and your offer to put 'little shamrock thingies' in my whisky! For fuck's sake, a tiny bit of dignity or real humor, either one, but no more with the green suspenders and shamrocked drinks!
I'm not Irish, by any stretch. I have Irish ancestors, yes, and I know people from Ireland (some residing there, some not), but I ain't Irish, and I'd never, regardless, get myself in pseudo-Irish costume, adopt Dick van Dyke's Mary Poppins accent (because that's soooo appropriate, of course; makes total sense), make a few jokes about being drunk and lazy, or about those crazy gays who keep trying to put it up little boys, and write it off as a tribute to somebody's culture or state of being. The fuck?
I really don't enjoy feeling I should, for the good of humanity, educate people with a swift bottle to the head. I don't. And I sat through it all relatively quietly, for the sake of the acquaintances I was accompanying, only making side commentary when absolutely necessary to my sanity. And then had to argue the tab, as the bar claimed the two-dollar whisky shots were, in fact, eight dollars a pop, and the bartender had been confused. Which is fun when you're full of them, already, trying to sound rational, pissed off and mildly drunk, but I did.
And even though I'm never ever going back there, I still want them to shut the fuck up. For all our sakes. Also, the band needs to learn how to play their instruments in a way that doesn't make me want to sic an army of rabid cats at their eyes. |
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