My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "It's St. Paddy's Day. Shaddup." " I didn't say anything, John." "Just shaddup." "What're you drinking?" " Smithwick's." "...It's pronounced 'Smitticks.'" "No, it's not." "Yes, it is." "It clearly reads 'Smithwick's.'" "But it's still pronounced 'Smitticks.'" "Smithwick's." "Smitticks." " Smithwicks." " Smitticks." " You know, this relationship isn't going to work if we can't agree on this, Aaron." "What relationship? What the Hell are you talking about?" "I'm talking about leprechauns, dude! Pots of gold. Rainbows. Good luck." "...That was absolutely not what you were talking about." "I am now." "But you weren't earlier." "Good God, Aaron, d...

A leprechaun stapled a pot of gold to a poor Irishman's head and scurried off cackling. Now how the leprechaun had done this, or how just an enormous and heavy cauldron filled with precious metal was able to dangle off the bloke's crown without snapping the metal bracket or ripping off flesh...was beyond everyone in the village. Still, as everyone clawed for the gold, I sat in the patch of shamrocks playing my flute and hoped that the poor gentleman wouldn't be torn to pieces for a few lumps of flaxen impurity.