by Joe Buonfiglio
WARNING: This blog-post has very little to do with St. Patrick’s Day. Okay, next to nothing to do with St. Pat— All right, it has JACK SHIT to do with St. Patrick’s Day. Happy?
I was intending to write my annual St .Patrick’s Day drivel about how I put back too much Guinness or eat too much corned beef or some “May the road rise up…” blah-blah or Danny Boy makes me cry even though I’m Italian, not Irish, as I have for what seems as if a million times before in past issues … episodes? … past psychotic breaks passing off as online literature. Then I thought…
Do any of you care?
I mean, hello? Is this thing on?
Am I really going to again relay the tale of some mythical saint driving mythical reptiles out of Ireland ONE … MORE … TIME?!
IRELAND?! Drive the snakes out of my brain and I’ll be impressed. My therapist has tried it for years and she gets bit every time.
No, I don’t think any of you give a leprechaun’s ginger ass what I write; doubly so at this Irish soda bread gorging, green beer swilling time of year. So here’s a little test: How many of you can tell me not about that delicious pint of stout ale at the top of this post, but what bit of non-Irish absurdity I’ve posted directly below here?
All right, it ain’t no pot of gold. But if you respond with the correct description of that picture, you’ll have the four-leaf clover luck of the Irish ’til God holds you in the palm of His—
Ah, screw it. ‘nother Harp-n-Tullamore Dew boilermaker, bartender.
© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio All Rights Reserved.