It’s that unlucky time of year again — the one they call St. Patrick’s Day. And I expect the bad luck to be Dublin this year. After all, it comes right on the heels of a Friday the 13th. At this point I’m half expecting my smoke alarm to start playing bagpipes.
Now you might be thinking, What about the luck of the Irish?
Well, that only applies if you’re actually Irish — which I am not. Unfortunately, I do know someone who is, and that’s where my misfortune begins.
Obviously, I’m talking about Trick, the leprechaun artist you might remember from a previous anecdote. Whenever he catches even the faintest whiff of corned beef and cabbage wafting from my kitchen, he shows up on my doorstep unannounced.
Usually after first playing ding-dong ditch.
This year I figured I’d throw him off the scent and make Reubens instead. But needless to say, that didn’t stop a visit from the Trickster.
The only bit of good fortune I had was that he didn’t stay long — but not before Reuben me blind — rye bread and all.
He even stole a box of Thin Mints I bought from a Girl Scout. Between you and me, he probably did me a favor. For me they’re less like Thin Mints…
…and more like Fat Mints.
I swear this guy could turn a four-leaf clover into Cloverfield — chaos, destruction, and a very tiny monster running off with my Reuben.
I’ve had my fair share of surprise visits from fictional characters lately — especially after the weekend when a Frozen character showed up disguised as a blizzard.
So if it’s all the same, I think I’ll just sit next St. Patrick’s Day out.
Preferably somewhere without a doorbell.