March 17, 2010: So, I see the Irish are up to their old tricks again. I think we all saw that coming. But be honest -- can any of us really put trust in someone with red hair?
I remember the first time I saw a leprechaun. He wasn't happy and dancing, like in the movies. He was grumpy and hungover, which I saw firsthand accounted for a sickly green pallor. And when I asked him about the pot of gold lore had promised, he got all huffy, made some rude Celtic comment and tried to hit me with his Shillelagh.
No, the Irish are a dangerous lot. Don't be fooled by all those tearful songs about roses and lassies. These people would just as soon chase you down and stuff you full of shamrocks, than guide you to Dublin.
So now we're devoting yet another March 17 to the insane drunken escapades of people who can't keep their own country united. (I mean, are they Catholics or Protestants or what?!) Please understand, this had always been my favorite date on the calendar (not because Italy declared independence in 1861, but it's the same date Ringo released "Back Off Bugaloo" in the UK), until the Irish started honing in on it and ruined everything.
As we speak, millions of them are probably swarming down Fifth Avenue in New York, like fervent homosexuals on Harvey Milk Day, smiling Irish eyes and painting the streets green with their vomit, carrying on like the whole world had been scripted by John Huston.
And I'll do you one further -- I have a very plausible theory that the Irish are really just ordinary Englishmen. In fact, I don't believe anyone over in the UK can really tell anyone else apart, and that they even confuse Australians and South Africans with Scotsmen.
Well, I've said my piece, but I warn you to beware. Watch the roads with one careful eye shut for the goings-on of little green men. They're out there, I swear it, and you never know what these "lucky" people are going to try next ...