Well, it's another St. Patrick's Day. The day when all Americans, Irish or not, pay homage to the man who drove the snakes from Ireland by drinking heavily, wearing green clothing that they find in the back of the closet behind a silk disco shirt and gorge themselves on corn beef and cabbage and any potato product besides French fries.

The Irish brogue, no matter how contrived and ill-performed, echoes from the walls of every watering hole. The need to be Irish today is so all-encompassing that other immigrants even try to emulate these Celtic people. This morning The Slayer stopped into his favorite convenience store for his morning Ho-Ho and Yoo-hoo. The owner, Punji, greeted him with a hearty "Top of morning you to," in an accent that was an amalgamation of Pakistani, Conversational English for Immigrants and Roger Moore as James Bond. As The Slayer was leaving, Punji, doing his best Bono, called after him, "You come back later for Shamrock Green Slushee."

This day everyone wants to be Irish; even if corned beef is not part of their diet plan. The Slayer wonders, if Ireland is so fantastic, why are there so many Irish immigrants in the United States. Maybe, instead of celebrating the deeds of St. Patrick, we should call this day St. Ellis Day; after the man who gave his name to the island that gave thousands of Irish more varied meal options than boiled, au gratin, fried and scalloped potatoes.

If you are of Irish descent, please don't take Slayer's comments the wrong way. He loves the people of Eire. Having spent ten days with them last year, he can appreciate the romanticism that is associated with the climatically dreary little island in the North Atlantic and it's befreckled inhabitants. The Irish have to be one of the most accommodating and friendly people on the face of the Earth. The Slayer, in his stay on the Emerald Isle, never meet a native who would not give him the last potato from his sack.

However, The Slayer finds that some of the Irish sayings, used primarily during St. Patrick's Day, to be a bit mystifying and confusing. The first of which is the "Luck of the Irish." If you take a brief look at Irish history (which The Slayer did) it is hard to find any semblance of fortune.

The people of Eire were ruled by the Protestant British for 150 years. For most of this period the Irish, who were mostly Catholic, with the exception of the northern province of Ulster (can you say Northern Ireland and IRA?), were afforded very few rights. In fact, they were not allowed to vote or hold public office (they didn't even receive an all expense paid South Atlantic cruise nor guaranteed employment).

Then, of course, there is the good fortune of the Irish Potato Famines. Yes, there were more than one of these tuber travesties in Irish history. Much to The Slayer's surprise, there were actually six: one in 1739; 1831; 1835; 1836; 1846 and 1879. The failure of the potato crop nearly wiped the Irish from the planet.

Those lucky Irish bastards! They had to endure the despotic rule of a foreign power for 150 years. All the while, praying that the potatoes in the west would not be destroyed by blight and disease. Probably, the only Europeans with worse luck are the Poles.

Of course, no St. Patrick's Day would be complete without the ubiquitous Kiss Me I'm Irish hats, T-shirts, pins, etc. The Slayer, who is ,by his own admission, not the best judge of beauty (you should see his dog), does not find the Irish people to be the most aesthetically pleasing. Given this, why would he be compelled to put the lip lock on an lassie. That may be why they print up the paraphernalia. It could be a desperate plea for human contact of an intimate nature.

Besides their questionable external beauty, most Irish people smell of beer (Guinness) and/or whiskey. While The Slayer is not averse to either of these odors, without the reward of actually ingesting of these beverages their aromas are not nearly as appealing. In fact, they tend to conjure up unpleasant memories of awakening on the hardwood floor of a fraternity after last night's keg party.

Furthermore, as The Slayer understands it, the kissing of an Irish Catholic can only be done if procreation is the intent of the physical contact; this according to Michael The Liver Lynch, an excommunicated priest from Cork. The Slayer does not need such strings attached to a stout induced gesture of affection. Besides, The Slayer wouldn't kiss his own mother on the cheek; even if it was covered with Rogue's Shakespeare Stout.

No matter the Irish people's luck and kissability, they do possess one thing that the rest of the world envies (no not the disease ridden Irish potato), Guinness Stout. This incredible conglomeration of malted barley, water from the Liffy River (which displays more tires at low tide than successful Goodyear dealership), hops, and yeast has long stood as the benchmark for the Irish Dry Stout substyle. Many have tried to duplicate it. None have succeeded.

Ah, but there is far more to the story of this traditional St. Patrick's Day malt beverage. The Irish people gained much more from Guinness than just a heavy belly and head. It not only gave the Irish strength, but also fortified their already healthy national pride.

The Guinness family used a portion of their wealth gained from the sale of Guinness Stout to give relief and a sense of pride to the people of the capital city of Dublin. Starting with Arthur Guinness' grandson Benjamin, who donated 150,000 pounds to help restore St. Patrick's Cathedral, Guinness philanthropy has done much for Dublin.

Benjamin's son, Edward Cecil, displays of generosity have to be the greatest of examples of big-heartedness the world has ever known. During his tenure as the head of Guinness Brewing (1876-1927), he bought Dublin's most famous park, St. Stephen's Green and opened the once private Georgian Square to the public. He also gave money to Dublin hospitals, Trinity College and provided homes for the poor in both Dublin and London. To top it all off, he was known as a model employer; Guinness workers could avail themselves to an extensive system of company social services.

Each time The Slayer puts a pint of Guinness to his lips he doe not think only of the silky nectar he is about to drink. He is also reminded of the good this brew has done for the people of Ireland. It is fitting that this beer, above all others, is the liquid symbol of St. Patrick Day celebrations. Perhaps, Guinness is why the Irish feel lucky.