If I should Fall from the Grace of God..

You know whats fucking bad? When something, a song, let's say, maybe one called, "Hey Ya", reminds you of some serious shit back in the day... and you turn it off, deaden yourself, and turn on, "The Irish Rover", and keep drinking. And you say, "Fuck this, I'll be dead eventually and this shit won't hurt."

Some people say this life is too short. I wonder exactly what life they're living when they say this shit..

When you think about it, it's only been five generations for me since my family came over from Ireland because of that fucking potato famine. I know the man who came here, he opened up a liquor store in Jersey City back in 1852. It seems like it's so long ago... but it is not. They were named Lynch, Burke, and McMachon, and they came over here because our boys were starving over there, and the English laughed from their high horses, caring little for my ancient brethern that starved while they drank.

Never wonder why I'm a Democrat. If you looked at me, you would know that Italian blood flows through my veins- my dark hair and skin gives this away quickly. But in my heart, in my soul, there is green blood that roars like a brutal tide, because the Irish has always been what I've identified with. When the pipes play amongst the cold March days, and our boys go marching down Fifth Avenue, you'll know who I am. My heart fades to a shade of Kelly green, one that has been passed down through the generations of people to show what the holiday truly means...


To be honest, I've been drinking, and women, in general, have got me tremendously upset...