As an 8th generation Canadian of mixed Irish-Scottish descent, I'm appalled and insulted at the lack of Gaelic in the opening ceremonies at the Winter Olympics in Vancouver.
Don't even get me started on "British" Columbia. Samuel Bird and Angus or Dougal or whatever-his-name-was MacFarlane came to this country to get away from all things British. That 200 years later, their put-upon descendants have to endure the King's English ad nauseam during a ceremony that's supposed to represent Canadians of all cultural backgrounds would put my shorts in a knot, were I wearing shorts under my kilt. Unless it happened while I was in the bathroom throwing up homemade whiskey and haggis, the opening ceremonies concluded without a single piper's lament or sheep buggering, and that's just wrong.
Not that I would recognize a Gaelic word or tradition if someone hit me over the head with a shillelagh, but that's not the point. The point is I want something to complain about, too, and as a white Anglo Saxon Protestant male of middle class standing, my opportunities to wallow in self-perceived martyrdom are virtually non-existent. It's not easy to claim persecution when your genetic makeup and gender suggest a historical position of privilege. How do I stick it to the man when I'm the man?
So that's all I've got - not enough Gaelic at the Olympics. Don't forget to check in next month when I piss and moan on behalf of my African-Canadian brothers and sisters about the dearth of Swahili at the St. Patrick's Day parade.