TheBunnyBlog.com - October 12, 2007

"I think being a woman is like being Irish. Everyone says you're important and nice, but you take second place all the same."
~Iris Murdoch

The English have sophistication and wit. The French have food and wine. The Italians have fashion. Eastern Europe has gorgeous women. The Middle East has architecture. The Japanese have design. The Brazilians have looks. The Germans have engineering. The Dutch have unrepentant freakiness. The Irish have...

The Irish have...

My family is mostly Irish. We came through Canada during the potato famine, found out nobody in North America liked Irish people, and suppressed all obviously-Irish tics and traits--because when you're Irish, you have little to be proud of. Don't think it's true? What can the Irish be proud of? Our mindporking, Nazi-run, kid-raping shit-show of a religion? What else do we celebrate perchance? Codependent personality disorder? Alcoholism, racism, recipes involving the over-boiling of tubers in spiceless water? The fact that our home country--which none of us ever visits--is very green, though green looks atrocious on skin with pinkish undertones? Guess what kind of undertones Irish skin has? Guess.

Perhaps we can celebrate that one day per year that is ours, the day of corporated debauchery named for "St. Patrick," the dude we hold holy for being dragged kicking and screaming to our country, and then enslaved by our mindporking religion. The day is little more than a national excuse for anyone of non-Irish descent to get drunk, fight and fuck someone they've never met before. If you're Irish, that's called "Thursday." On Friday we wake up in the gutter.

So bear with me if you're Irish, because I'm done bitching. You're gagging for something substantial to celebrate. You're like me and you want to be proud of your people, tics and quirks included. You'd like to take note of something good that has come of your gene set, something that doesn't taste like paste, something that doesn't leave you feeling like the devil after masturbating. Well then, it is with great pleasure that I present to you: UFC light heavyweight genius, Forrest Griffin.

Our dear Forrest recently whooped the shit out of the thought-to-be unbeatable Brazilian, Mauricio Shogun Rua (pronounced "hua"--apparently the Portuguese didn't get the memo on the "R") at UFC 76, Knockout. Nobody picked him to win. In fact, we all thought, "Run, Forrest, run!" but he didn't just win the fight, he dominated all rounds--soundly, with strategy, reasoning and inner calm one almost never sees in an Irishman--winning in the final round with a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu blood choke. Yes, that's right. Our pink-eared boy beat a slippery, brown Brazilian at his own god damned game.

I was at my father's sixtieth birthday bash when the news that Forrest had won came in via text message. I screamed "THE IRISH HAVE WON!" for a half hour straight, and nobody understood because the Irish don't win at anything. Whatever. At least we're not boring. I proved this by drinking myself into a coma in celebration of dad and my heritage. It was a fitting tribute, for sure.

The only thing NOT thrilling about Forrest's win was the post-fight interview, during which he was questioned about his future in the UFC: "My family says 'Forrest, you have to fight. It's the only thing you're good at.'"

Dammit.

Anyway, congratulations to Forrest Griffin, and everybody with the tics and the crap religion. We didn't have to take second place this time. Go eat a tuber and have a beer, and another and another, because it's Friday, and that gutter aint gonna fill itself.

Posted by The Bunny at 2:39 AM