[Imagine the following told by a
man with an accent that is frighteningly similar to the lucky charms dude's]
Well laddies, today I'm going to tell yous a story about the stupidity of corporate America. Y'see it all the time, when St. Patty's day comes round they all round up their green little bowler hats and their plastic shamrocks and kiss eachother while claimin' t'be Irish. What a load O'crock! If any a'them had a decent lick O Irish in 'em, they'd a-left by now or would have been exterminated during the early 20th century.
However, the biggest load o'
gaelic-crap is the Corn-Beef rage. Corn Beef, one of the modern world's few scientific mysteries. It can sit on the shelf for decades and taste no differ'nt when eaten. Might have somethin' t'do with the fact that it's about 50% oil/fat, which doesn't taste so good t'begin with. In fact, if ya give it enough time, the taste might all together vanish, thereby makin' it a truly edible substance. But as it is, it was never meant to be eaten. You see, I have a rule that anythin' m'dog won't eat, I won't either! But praise Saint Patrick that the American's buy the junk.
It all started millenia ago with our
ancient pagan celtic ancestors. As you know, the celts were never a rich people (which is crazy considering their almost tropic-like weather, just meant for growin' stuff), which led to them being very frugal- even to the point of frugality with their pagan-deities. They performed ritualistic sacrifices every now n'then, but they were never a very consistent pagan nation. Until one day they realized, "Our pagan gods ne'er eat the stuff we give 'em, so why don't we give 'em what we don't want ourselves?"
As you know, the irish nation has always been a land rich with
potatoes and hearty cattle. Well, everytime the townsfolk were a'preparin' supper and came across a
rotten bit o'potato, they just hucked it in the sacrifice bin for later. When this bin got full, they would take the excess oil from the beef they prepared each night and pour it in the bin, until the
potatoes were encrusted with rock solid solidified oil. This was called Corap in Befin (gaelic for
"Crap in Bin").
At first, they performed sacrifices every time their bin got full, but they soon realized that the stuff kept and burnt like parafin, and they could keep it for a long time, and get it all done with at once. Soon it became the custom to burn your sacrifice but once a year. Well, the local
Pagan clergy di'n't like that at all, so they suggested that they proove their true devotion to their
pagan gods, not by sacrificing more often, but by making a pilgrimage 'n order to sacrifice (though, some claim that the clergy just couldn't take the smell of burning-rotten-potatoes covered in bull fat).
Once again, we Irish are very frugal, and decided to kill 2 birds with one bin o
crap (quite literally). So, we thought we'd take a wee vacation down to our favorite celtic pagan spot: Salisbury, or as it was known at the time, land of the
bird droppings (in gaelic of course). So, every year, they'd gather up their "Corap in Befin" and truck it on down to the land of
bird droppin's, where rests the famous and most ancient site of Stone Henge. They all loved t'see it, but hated t'be there fer the blasted birds. But, religion is religion, so they buckled down, slapped on their leather boots, and waded through the
droppin's t'the center o'Stone Henge.
One o'the Pagan-Priests decided that this (bein' the first time ever yearly sacrifice at Stone Henge) required the site t'be sanctified before their sacrifices would be accepted. The best way t'do this was by fire. So, they slathered up all the stones with "Corap in Befin" and lit them on fire. First of all, this was a spectacular site t'see and was well worth the trip, despite the awful smell o'burnin Corap in Befin. Second o'all, it burned all the
bird droppins right off the stones. But, most gloriously, as though it were a sign from the pagan gods themselves, the millions of birds that plagued the land... were barbequed. They dropped from the sky like rain, with their feathers burnt clear off because they'd been flyin' o're at the time of ignition. So, they all feasted on every type of fowl that day, and the land of
bird droppin's became known more and more by it's proper name-- stone henge.
For centuries this practice continued. Year after year they'd pilgrimigde down t'Stone Henge, slather it up, "Offer Sacrifices" and enjoy their vacation and barbeque. Over time, the pilgrimidges stopped (about the time the Brits decided they owned everything and wouldn't let us Irish in t'sacrifice [e'en though we offered t'share in the barbeque. They said they wouldn't come if they didn't have tea and crumpets]). Unfortunately, the tradition was so far engraned into the culture that they know longer knew what to do with their waste products of rotten potatoes and meat fat (I mean really now, would you?). So, they kept storing it, and storing it, and storing it. Rumor has it that they started building houses outta the bins, and even created several small mountain ranges with th'stuff.
In the mid-1800's some bloke got the brilliant idea to export the stuff under false pretenses. They tried t'market it t'China as mortar for repairs to their huge wall. This attempt failed miserable, because of the foul smell. Decades later, they tried to market it to the Austrailians as a form of torture and branding for their outlaws. This had limited success, as the Australians would bathe their criminals in it (thus torture) and the smell would linger (thus marking them as convicts). Unfortunately, after all Australians had the permeating smell of corap in befin on them, no one could tell anyone apart (they had hoped the smell would dissipate with time, and scientists to this day still believe it would, but unfortunately not in a span that is measurable within
one human life). In the late 1800's they again attempted to market it, this time to Russia. It was marketed as insulation. It had great success in siberia where the locals were so desperate to stay warm and their noses had frozen solid and they couldn't smell the stuff. Unfortunately, it worked so well that eventually their noses un-froze, and sales stopped immediately.
Then in the 1920's America was in a great depression. Ireland wasn't doing so hot either. We had no resources, and all of our potatoes were rotten. Our country was doomed. One day, a desperate man named McLoony, on the verge of starvation, and probably half drunk (which here in Ireland means about 9 times drunker than an American can get) attempted to satisfy his hunger by eating the corap in befin. There was an endless supply, and we suppose that his reasoning was that if he could stomach it, and it provided any nutrition at all, he could survive on it. Unfortunately it provided no
nutrition, and the McLoony died. However, eye witnesses t'the event got a brilliant idea. The American's need cheap food because of the depression. If we can convince them that this is food, and that it only tastes terrible because its cheap, and they believe us, then we could solve all our financial problems. After all, it is our only resource, it is very abundant, and we can't use it for fear of dying ourselves. So, why not sell it t'America.
So, the campain began. Irish immigration soared, and each one took as much corap in befin with them as they could. In an attempt t'make it sound like food, they converted its name to "Corn Beef" ("Corap in Befin" = "Cor.. .n Bef..") 'though it contains neither corn nor beef (although some companies today, in an attempt to keep selling it, have added what can be debatably called beef. But, the essential rotten potatoes have always been the core ingredient). They sold it, bought land in America, and grew real potatoes which they could send back to Ireland, until Ireland recovered. Sales soared, because those American capitalists are always on the lookout for a good deal. What could be better? Cheap food, in the time of the depression-- it was a miracle.
The Irish recovered (largely due to the economic support received from Corn Beef Sales), and all the irish returned home. Unfortunately, the depression also ended, and with it, virtually all sales of corn beef (surprise surprise [don't forget: you're supposed to still be imagining an irish accent dude]). The few irish left in America tried t'sell it as a traditional food, but let's be frank- how many Irish restaurants have you been to? What would they serve you? Potatoes? So, they came up with the clever plot to create an Irish holiday. They leveraged off of the Catholic church and made Saint Patrick's day. Unfortunately, no one cared. But, once they made the buttons and hats and shamrocks that said, "
Kiss me, I'm Irish!" The American's took t'it like a
crack-baby to an addiction.
So, there is still one day a year when Corn Beef is purchased and consumed (day before St. Patty's, and the day of [respectively]). It was enough to keep the few Irish in America going.
That's th'history of Corn Beef. The next break on the horizon that has to do with Corn Beef is still very secretive. I can't give away to much information. Let's just say we Irish won't have to worry about the rising cost of crude oil!
Well, until the next time I decide to BS your ear off, Catch me luck charms,
-Rob
P.S. If you read this looking for a plot, be sure that you have my most sincere apologies. Just take it for what it is. Laugh when you want to laugh, curse when you want to curse, and ignore the boring parts.
P.P.S. And, as always, "
Kiss me! I'm Irish!"
P.P.P.S.
Some good advice. Seriously.
