Erin go Braugh

There’s an old saying that goes: On Saint Patrick’s Day there are two kinds of people in this world; those who are Irish, and those who wish they were.”

Middle class, White Anglo-Saxon Protestant (WASP), kids growing up in the suburbs often feel like they lack a sense of identity. They want to feel like they belong to something. School spirit does a good job of fulfilling this need for some high school kids. Others end up in gangs or race/hate groups.

I was fortunate enough to wind up thinking that “Lutheran” was my ethnic group. A lot of that was due to Minnesota author Garrison Keillor and his Prairie Home Companion Show. But for a long time I was convinced that I was as Irish as they came. Loved green, listened to the Irish rock band U.2., drank Irish Coffee.

Since I was a History major, I researched our family’s background as much as I could. Much to my dismay, “Mallory” wasn’t such an Irish name after all. In the first place, there have been Mallorys over here since the 1600’s and like most WASPs, we’re pretty watered down- a little Dutch, a little English, some German, and so on.

In fact, Mallory is Scotch-Irish. These were Presbyterian Scotts that the Episcopal English resettled in Ireland to help control the Catholics. This made sense, the Mallory coat of arms is a red rampant lion on a yellow field, just like the Scottish flag. No tartan though, no clan, the lion wears a white or silver collar. That symbol meant that they served the English crown.

As a matter of fact, the name Mallory wasn’t even English originally. They came over in the Norman invasion with William the Conqueror. That means that their origins were French. In fact, “Mal~Lorie” originally meant something like “son of unlucky.”

Desperate to somehow identify with the poor, downtrodden, noble and voraciously independent people of the emerald isle, I turned to my mother’s side of the family. Sure enough, the Rielly’s were my ticket to an Irish pedigree.

There was even a legend about my grandfather inheriting a castle in the motherland, but not being able to afford to pay the back taxes on it. Grandpa drove trucks in Detroit, his father had been a captain on the great lakes. And wouldn’t you know it? When my great-grandfather came to America from Canada, he changed his name to Rielly from the more Irish, “O’Rielly,” like the auto parts store. He did it because he wanted to be an American, not just another Irishman.

I let that set in. As I got older, I appreciated that sentiment much more. Why try to be something you’re not? And, why not be happy to be part of this new, unique, even if it is homogenized nationality, this melting pot, America? Bill Murray (note Irish surname) said it well in the movie “Stripes,” when he said “We’re mutts, our people were kicked out of every decent country in the world.”

So, I’m not so Irish, and I’m not Irish-Catholic. As a matter of fact, I don’t even like the taste of Guinness Stout. But today, like everybody else I’ll still wear green, and if I can talk my wife into it I’ll even try to make some corned beef and cabbage.

So, in that spirit, here’s a few of my favorite Irish jokes, presented for your holiday merriment;

The Irish say that St. Patrick chased the snakes out of Ireland, what they don't tell you is that he was the only one who saw any snakes!

"Why do you Irish always answer a question with a question?" asked President Franklin D. Roosevelt. "Do we now?" came New York Mayor Al Smith's reply.

One of the best lines in Mel Gibson’s movie ‘Braveheart’ was this one- "In order to find his equal, an Irishman is forced to talk to God." The other one I can’t print here.

Q. What is Irish diplomacy?
A. It's the ability to tell a man to go to hell. So that he will look forward to making the trip

Pat and Mike were coming home drunk, they stumbled up the country road in the dark.

"Faith, Mike” Pat said, “we've stumbled into the graveyard and here's the stone of a man lived to the age of 103!"

"Glory be, Patrick” said Mike, “and was it anybody we knew?"

"No,” answered Pat, “'twas someone named 'Miles from Dublin'!"

An Irish priest and a Rabbi were a car accident. They both got out of their cars and stumbled over to the side of the road.

"Oy vey! What a wreck!" said the rabbi.

"Are you all right, Rabbi?" asked the priest.

"Just a little shaken." said the rabbi. The priest pulled a flask of whiskey out of his jacket and offered it to the rabbi.

"Here, drink some of this. It will calm your nerves." He said.

The Rabbi took the flask and drank it down and said, "Well, what are we going to tell the police?"

"Well," the priest said, "I don't know what your aft' to be tellin' them. But I'll be tellin' them I wasn't the one drinkin'."

And of course, there’s the old stand by: How do we know that Christ was Irish?

Because he was 33 still lived at home and didn't have a job. He hung out with 12 buddies he went fishing with. And He thought his mother was a virgin and she thought He was the son of God.

There are those who wish they were Irish, and those who know better.