Random ramblings of a mind damaged by years of disuse and abuse. Also a place to go to be bored to tears.
The Random Comic Strip
Words to live by...
"How beautiful it is to do nothing, and to rest afterward."
(The right to looseness has been officially given)
"Everyone carries a part of society on his shoulders," wrote Ludwig von Mises, "no one is relieved of his share of responsibility by others. And no one can find a safe way for himself if society is sweeping towards destruction. Therefore everyone, in his own interest, must thrust himself vigorously into the intellectual battle."
Apparently, the crossword puzzle just disappeared from the blog. Sorry!
Saturday, March 17, 2012
On this a sacred day...
Today, everyone is a little Irish. I am more than a little. I am only a couple of generations removed from an Irish immigrant. My grandfather, my father's father, sailed out of what is now called Northern Ireland (back then, the entire Irish isle was "owned" by England) and came to America. And stayed. Rumor has it that he met one Helen Mahaffey on a previous trip and was so smitten that he returned to woo and wed her. There is Irish blood somewhere on my mother's side, too, though that story was one she never told me. Probably Scottish and French (a mingling of MacDonalds and Piccards) is more likely. But today is that one day a year when we happily indulge in that stereotype of Irish behavior... drinking.
I do not know how the Irish got that reputation but my grandfather certainly did his best to live up to it. Much to Grandma's chagrin. He hid his vice from her as best he could, I think, in order to keep peace. She had a temper, that one. She must have been a babe in her youth because her personality was not a pretty one when I knew her.
It has always seemed odd to me that we celebrate a saint by getting snockered. But then we do that for so many celebrations, I suppose. And it is odd that a Welshman is the patron saint of Ireland. Especially when you find out he was captured in his youth and enslaved in Ireland for 6 years before escaping and returning to Wales, only to return as a bishop to spend many of his years in what is now Northern Ireland trying to civilize heathens as a bishop of the Catholic Church.
Maybe it has something to do with the belief that March 17th was the day he died, not the day he was born.
Happy St Patrick's Day, one and all!
Irishman, an Englishman and a Scotsman go into a pub. Each orders a
pint of Guinness. Just as the bartender hands them over, three flies
buzz down and land-- one, two, three-- in each of the pints. The Englishman
looks disgusted, pushes his pint away and demands another... the
Scotsman picks out the fly, shrugs, and takes a long swallow. The Irishman
reaches in to the glass, grabs the fly between his fingers and shakes
him as hard as he can, shouting 'Spit it out, ya bloody bastard! Spit it