Please Join My Appeal to the Pope to Reschedule St. Paddy's Day
Some things in this world are important. Even sacred. And none more so than my right to have a good time.
Things are tough all over. I get that. Everything is canceled except, unfortunately, NFL free agency, which is only making matters worse. In fact, today I quit washing my hands after 15 seconds because what's the point? And I'm not ruling out touching my face and ending my misery.
The thing is, I consider myself a man from hearty stock. We've been through worse. The economic collapse of 2008, which would've wiped out all my family's investments if those investments weren't 1,200 bucks in our bank account and Dave's promise he'd get my quarterly check off to me by the end of the month. The Super Bowls That Shall Not Be Named I & II. Blizzards. Heat waves. Power outages. Tuition bills. Season 8 of "Game of Thrones." And we endured. I don't ask for a lot. All I ask for is hope.
So with that, I'm making an appeal to the Pope. The highest authority I can think of when my High Holy Day of St. Patrick's Day has been utterly destroyed by Coronavirus and (probably) the Tampa Bay Bucs. I just want to believe that this day won't be gone for good. That we can salvage it somehow so I don't go to my final reward knowing I got one fewer Irish Christmases than I deserve. So please join me in this crusade by writing to the Holy See like I am.
Dear Pope Francis (a/k/a "The Cool One"),
I don't ask for a lot. All I want is for my sins to be forgiven if I work up the guts to confess them, maybe a nice send off when I die and a day in the middle of March to celebrate with inebriates. To honor my heritage with harmless, cruelty free acts of drunken debauchery, just once a year. To pack myself into a pub and listen to pipers and tin whistles in a sea of green clad humanity, as the Almighty intended.
At the time of this writing, I should be in about hour six and Guinness 12 right and rendition of "Wild Rover" 18 by now. I had a commitment from a mom in town that she was going to save me a seat at 8:30 this morning at a place where the live music was scheduled to start at 8 a.m. But instead I've been at my laptop all day, soberer than Mitt Romney. I can't even go out on my back deck and sing with my neighbors like they're doing in Venice since I live in the suburbs and the only people within earshot are middle aged ladies who don't probably know a lot of Dropkick Murphy's. So it's just been another day, only exceptionally grim and filled bad news.
So please do one of your congregation this small solid. Wave your scepter and wave that incense thing and say the magic words that will move this day back a couple of months. June 17th seems like as good a day as any, but I'm not picky. There are people out there suffering a lot worse than yours truly. Pub owners. Servers. Bartenders. Cops who work overtime. Public defenders who pick up a ton of cases. Emergency rooms:
Street cleaners mopping up all the vomit and urine. The breweries and distilleries.
I know this might sound like small, boiled potatoes to you, what with your country on lockdown, Notre Dame in cinders and … you know … the other stuff. But I show up most weeks and throw something in the collection plate. At least one of my sons does all the time at one of your Franciscan universities, so he counts for me. And all I'm asking for is a few hours of responsibility-free frivolity to celebrate my culture. Give us this. Give us hope.
Thank you in advance. Wash your hands. God bless.
Jerry