Is there a Grinch of St. Patrick’s Day?
There sure as hell is, dammit.
His name is: me.
When I see fields of clover, I don’t look for the four-leafed mutants. I just turn up the volume on my iPod and fire up the riding lawnmower.
When someone offers me green beer, I throw it back in their face. Real beer is black, as black as night, and can’t be colored green.
And when someone says there’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I punch them in the face.
Because, well, it really pisses me off.