St. Patrick's Day

It's not been a good one folks.

I didn't wear green, last night. The co-worker I scared last week got his revenge by punching my arm every time he saw me, and telling me I should have worn green. I kept telling him he was doing St. Patrick's Day wrong, but he didn't believe me.

And then, I got home and was going to make the traditional BSTommy St. Paddy's Day Breakfast (Scrambled Eggs), and in the midst of tranferring that feast from frying pan to plate, I managed to drop the sunsabitches on the floor.

Given the general disrepair of the BSTommy Compound, I decided that the 5-Second Rule did not apply, and I put my eggs down the garbage disposal.

Then, things got really bad.

As I turned away from the sink, I caught a little movement out of the corner of my eye. It was smallish, and running along the baseboard, under the table.

Jeezus, I said. That was a big mouse!

And then I saw it run behind the garbage can. Yeah. Too big to be a mouse. Begorrah! I've got a rat. I cussed a green streak (in honor of the holiday).

Watching to make sure it didn't run under the cabinet, I slowly took the hammer out of the junk drawer, grabbed the trash can, jerked it away from the wall, and I attacked!

I'll give myself a little credit. I displayed some surprising agility and quickness for a big man. And some deadeye hand-eye coordination.

One bop with a hammer. And it was dead.

But it wasn't until I'd had a moment to breathe, to see what exactly this bleeding dead thing exactly for what it was.

It was an animal, and it was smaller than a breadbox, but the 20 question similarities diverge there.

The smoldering remains of its pipe lay broken in two by its side. It's little green hat and coat were now turning a remarkable shade of crimson. One tiny shoe with a little silver buckle had come flying off its foot, and had come to rest by my own giant-sized-by-comparison hoof.

I kept looking at its beard. It's remarkable red beard. Which was now two remarkable shades of red.

Rats don't have beards. Nor do they smoke pipes or wear little green coats. Or tiny black shoes with silvery buckles on them. No, rats certainly do not.

But Leprechauns bleed the reddest blood of all.

I don't think this is going to fare well for me. The Notre Dame football team came over about an hour ago and beat the snot out of me.

There are a whole boatload of snakes writhing around the apartment now, all of them speaking of deep brogues and cursing haven been driven from their homeland.

And, with apologies to Frank Cho, I think I've contracted Potato Famine.

And the worst part? The leprechaun was protecting his pot of gold, which was hidden in the BSTommy Compound. In my sock drawer, no less. The two little guys who came to get their friend took the pot of gold, too...mentioning in passing its value of nearly $13 million.

No folks. It ain't been a good one at all.