A Modest Proposal to the People of the New World
Each and every year millions of Irish, Irish-ish and amateur alcoholics are needlessly distracted from their Holy Tradition of drinking themselves into a stupor in honour of Saint Patrick and the wee island he adopted as home. They spit-take their libations—a shameful waste; they wring their flat caps; they clutch their camáin that little bit tighter; and the cailíní rua glow their familiar shade of rage.
The source of this terrible distraction?
An onslaught of superficial, dyed-green references to Saint Patrick’s Day as Patty’s Day. Like nails on a chalkboard. It gnaws at them. It riles them up. It makes them want to fight… you know, more than usual.
It’s Paddy, not Patty. Ever.
Saint Patrick’s Day? Grand.
Paddy’s Day? Sure, dead-on.
St. Pat’s? If ye must.
St. Patty? No, ye goat!
Paddy is derived from the Irish, Pádraig: the source of those mysterious, emerald double-Ds.
Patty is the diminutive of Patricia, or a burger, and just not something you call a fella.
There isn’t a sinner in Ireland that would refer to a Patrick as “Patty”. It’s as simple as that.
Shamrock isn’t just any old piece of clover: it’s three-leafed.
Tradition holds that Saint Patrick used the trefoil to teach the Trinity. He’d have no luck with the four-leaf clover on your leprechaun hat.
Irish Car Bomb isn’t a cute name for a drink or a cupcake. Cut that shite out.
Those of us that have lived their lives punctuated by actual bombs aren’t giggling along with you.
Paddy, Mick, and Tadhg have been used as slurs for centuries, aye, but they are still people’s names.
However stereotypical it may be, it isn’t a slur to call you by your actual name.