The 2010 US Census indicated slightly less than 35,000,000 Americans (that's the number with an M, if you blinked and lost your place) claim for themselves Irish heritage. If you're keeping track at home there are slightly less than 5,000,000 Irish in the Republic of Eire.
It has been rumored for decades that the celebrations by the first group are actually audible to even the most cloth-eared of the latter segment of the world's population. If you are observing yourself today perhaps you might wish to pursue the scientific method and check out the premise for yourself. Be warned it will be extremely loud and very drunk almost anywhere you go.
The most devoted to celebrating their Irish heritage among us, to include people who aren't really Irish at all, will have attended early Mass before starting their observances which may, or may not, cease at about the time the whistle blows tomorrow morning to start the day and the work week. God loves Irishmen and the Lord loves a drunk but there's no sense in provoking him by combining them at Mass now is there? See, there are reasonable men among us. Usually they are called designated drivers.
Many hateful, hurtful words will be shared between friends today that will never be forgotten. Fortunately there will be even more that no one will ever remember except in quiet moments and luckily the Irish have far too few of those for anyone to be concerned. The Irish tend to use alcohol to ward off their own sad permutation of Alzheimer's that results in an Irishman forgetting everything but the grudges.
It's thirty-five plus years since I last touched a drop (mainly because it never remained a drop) and I can still recall every single slight, real and/or imagined, to my intelligence and honor from anyone at anytime from anywhere. Yes, like so many, I, too, have Irish Alzheimer's; I forget everything but the grudges. However I don't suffer from it, I revel in it. Today's a good day to remember green means go and do so with dispatch.
"You may bury me with an enemy in Mount Calvary. You can stack me on a pyre and soak me down with whiskey, roast me to a blackened crisp and throw me in a pile. I could really give a shit - I'm going out in style.
"You can take my urn to Fenway spread my ashes all about or you can bring me down to Wolly Beach
And dump the sucker out. Burn me to a rotten crisp and toast me for a while; I could really give a shit - I'm going out in style."