Dear Leprechauns

This year is the year. Come March 17, I won’t fall for the old “your shoelaces are untied” a second time. Nah, this year I’m stylin’ velcro and you’ll have plenty of time to scope out my snazzy kicks while I’m shaking you upside down, emptying your pockets of their gold and Lucky Charms.

I’ve been practicing my Leprechaun freezing stare, boning up on Leprechaun reverse-psychology and I’ve been running the scenario over and over in my brain.

I remember one year, I thought I’d done it, I was elated, I’d finally caught one of you mangy buggers.

I’d gone to take out the garbage, noticed some suspicious movement by one of the bins, went to investigate and saw a tiny little bearded humanoid.

“Ha! Finally!” I screamed. “Take me to your gold! You can’t move while I stare at you cobbler!”

“No dude. You’re thinking of leprechauns. I’m a Clurichaun.”

I was devastated. A quick look at its grease-stained, tiny blue jeans and miniature leather jacket with accompanying pompadour confirmed he was surely not a leprechaun. It got me very smashed on its mystical wine as a consolation. But I could tell the it did it so out of pity and not camaraderie.

Leprechauns beware.  I’m not going to be denied.


Fergis T. McGillicuddy