St. Patrick's Day is coming, and that means a good many people will wear green, pretend to be Irish and consider it their duty--in honor of the saint who chased the snakes out of Ireland--to drink themselves into a coma. What better way to commemorate the life and deeds of this Romano-Briton and Christian missionary who is recognized as the patron saint of Ireland than with a good healthy bout of projectile vomiting? Of course, I'm kidding. I wouldn't poke fun at this beloved celebration--and holy day of obligation for church-goers. Not unless I've had a few drinks, anyway, and then I might let loose a blasphemous string of profanity and curse all that is sacred and solemn--but that would only be the booze talking. And then if I drove home drunk and jumped the curb and ran over a few pedestrians, well, by God, that would only be the booze driving. And then if my poor little overworked liver, which has started to resemble a weatherbeaten football that's been boiled with cabbage for a few goodly hours, starts to fail me and I call for a man of the cloth in my final hour, and he doesn't show up, well, then it's the booze that doesn't show up since the priest will undoubtedly be plastered himself. See how it works? Booze is the excuse that makes the world go round! So grab some green (which was outlawed by the bloody Brits) and sing a few rebel songs and lament about the Troubles and the terrible potato famine and don't get suckered in to some tourist trap sports bar just because they put a shamrock in the window and sell green beer and sodden corned beef--stay home, crack a bottle of Jameson's and a couple Guinnesses and give a nod to St. Pat before you pass out. Erin go Bragh!