Explanations and dick jokes

Apparently not everyone quite got what the deal with that last post was.

The Ides of March, or March 15th, was the day that Julius Caesar was killed by thirty-three Roman senators, including Marcus Brutus and Gaius Cassius.

In the play Julius Caesar, Caesar is confronted on the feast of the Lupricau (known today as Valentine's Day) by a soothsayer who shouted, "Beware the Ides of March." In his arrogance he ignored the warning. And the rest is history.

I'd like to point all of you in the direction of Miz Bohemia's guest post on circumcision over at Sar's, where incedentally I've been nominated for the caption contest for the second week in a row. Throughout the debate I've had the urge to crack jokes, but didn't want to make them there. So if you'll give me leave:

Circumcision is an issue that a lot of people get snippy about. It can be a real pain in the dong.

I was circumcised and I'm not all that pleased about it, but I'm not about to bring up old wounds.

Miz B's arguement against circumcision cuts to the point.

Ahem.

Ok, I think that's it for the jokes.

More shall be added to this post. But first, dinner.

Ok, so more accurate would have been to say, "More shall be added after dinner, coffee, and a lot of guitaring." It's about 2 at the moment. Hope no one missed me. Well actually that's not true. I hope that people missed me if they came here expecting something, but I hope that no one was terribly put off that I haven't continued my post.

In any case.

With Transcience still in hiatus, Alice on vacation, and Pia soon to leave on a trip of her own, I may have to step things up here. I'll give it a shot.

There is a holiday in Boston known as Evacuation Day. Quite simply, the day that we drove the Redcoats the fuck out of Boston. Cannons taken from Fort Ticonderoga were placed on Dorchester Heights, stocked with gunpowder stolen from a stockpile in Bermuda, were trained on General Howe's Garrison. The battle ended with naught a salvo fired, save a few warning shots. Boston was never attacked again.

Such a day of triumph for our country, and more specifically for the city of Boston, and even more specifically over the British, quite fittingly coincides with Saint Patrick's Day. And here in Boston, we do that shit right. Fuck green beer; it's what people use as compensation for not really wearing green on the inside. Guinness on tap, Harp, Killian's Irish Red. Jamerson's whiskey. All flow liberally in Boston on this day. Also, fuck corned beef and cabbage; that shit ain't authentic. This is the day of Irish breakfasts. Potatos done any way; and apart from that just eat whatever the fuck and chase it with a pint.

This is also the day to get wicked. To rock out so hard it sets off car alarms at a distance of 300 meters. And there is one mainstay of the Saint Patrick's Day experience that one can only partake of here in Boston. A Dropkick Murphys concert. Good God I hope you know who the Murphys are. Punk rockers born and raised in the city of Boston whose every song is laced with their Irish heritage. It's been said that the Irish invented the bagpipe and gave it to the Scottish as a joke. This is true. And the Scots mastered the technical skill of the bagpipe. Some time later on, the Murphys said, "well that's all well and good, but how about we show you how to make music with this thing that people will actually enjoy."

The Dropkick Murphys play at least one show every Saint Patrick's Day. To be an Irishman, a Bostonian, and a rocker and not see them at least once on this day would be to deny my heritage. That and it would be to miss out on the best way that one under the age of 21 can legally enjoy the holiday. Which is why in about 2 hours I'm going to step outside my door, and into a car. That car will be headed into town. Specifically, it will be headed towards the Black Rose Restaurant, where the Dropkick Murphys are playing at 8 in the morning. The doors open at 6 and the first 100 people in the door get free Irish breakfasts.

I'll take "We doin' this!" for five billion fucking dollars, Alex.

So expect the next post to be a possibly incoherent rambling about a kickass show. The thought had briefly occured to me to take a nap first but I'm way too pumped right now.

So a warm and boisterous Happy Saint Patrick's Day to all, even those of you without a drop of Celtic blood in your veins. This is a day where all Americans have something to celebrate, so who's to say you're not entitled to shout just as loud as the pale dude next to you wearing a scally cap and a Celtics shirt? No one with a drop of sense in them. So rock on. I hear Sar is having a party, so by all means show up. Rock out with such intensity as to make the web itself tremble in its stress.

I leave you with these words of the late, great James Joyce:

Irresponsibility is part of the pleasure of all art; it is the part the schools cannot recognize.

Wombat out.