How ‘Bout Some Fries With Those Fireworks?

 

Would you like fries with that?

 

When I was a teenager, fireworks were perfectly legal to own and shoot in most of Texas. Had this not been the case, there might be more wood shingle rooftops today. 

I fear I have contributed to at least a few shingle replacements, and I know I’m responsible for an entire kitchen remodel. You see, when I was a teenager I sold firecrackers, bottle rockets, and whistling chasers from our family farm located behind Southfork Ranch.

My folks didn’t seem to mind that their front porch held enough fire power to compete with the Cotton Bowl fireworks extravaganza. Probably they were just thrilled to see me earning money they didn’t have to earn first. 

Nowadays, most folks realize it’s dangerous for children to ignite pyrotechnics during one of the driest months of the year, especially in a grassfire prone state. But back then, I guess people were less concerned. Maybe they figured a burned lawn is one that won’t need mowing.

No one in my family ever caught the yard on fire. The house? Yes, but never the lawn.

My siblings and I received strict fireworks instructions from Dad. “Point the bottom end of that Roman candle away from you,” he’d caution. After I’d seen one of Dad’s errant Roman candles misfire, launching a ball of flame over my head, I really didn’t need to be told this. Being a wise older sister, I also knew to keep the designated exploding end of these fire sticks aimed away from me and towards my brothers.

Like most boys, my younger siblings could be destructive with or without fireworks. Firecrackers simply gave them more options.

Several of my Barbie dolls owe their demise to a fist-full of Black Cats. But I wasn’t terribly upset when my Barbies’ demoralizing bodies were blackened. I’d already outgrown the dolls and was yet too young to realize their future eBay values. Fortunately, my brothers never blew up anything I treasured, like, say, maybe a Tiger Beat poster of Bobby Sherman. That would have instigated the disappearance of at least three G.I. Joes.

During my youth, Independence Day was a more celebrated and dangerous time when otherwise law-abiding citizens morphed into mailbox felons overnight. Rooftops smoldered beneath rockets’ embers. Grassfires dotted roadway ditches at night. And ever so often, some hoodlum would shoot a Texas Twister into a fully stocked fireworks stand. Secretly I was enthused by the astonishing light show that typically followed.

Though I wasn’t a particularly destructive kid, while tending our family’s fireworks stand, I did set fire to the kitchen.  

This wasn’t entirely my fault. Okay, maybe I was partially responsible. All right, I flat out suffered an idiot attack.

It was July 4, the peak sales day for fireworks, and there seemingly was no end to the extent of customers who wanted to prove their patriotism by blowing up something. All morning, I’d been serving anxious buyers. My stomach ached from hunger, but the crowds kept coming. Finally, there was a break in traffic, so I raced indoors to fry some French fries. But then I heard cars arriving again, possibly ones with cute boys inside. 

Quickly I turned on a gas stove burner, poured some frozen fries into a skillet full of vegetable oil, and rushed back outside. 

By the time I remembered the skillet, it was too late.

When I raced into the kitchen, the stove was engulfed in flames. And to make matters worse, the fries were ruined.

Not long after this, my parents sold their farm, and they never again encouraged me to sell fireworks. But sometimes when I’m driving through rural areas and I spot a little fireworks stand, I feel an overwhelming urge to stop—and offer French fries.

 

Diana Estill is the author of Deedee Divine’s Totally Skewed Guide to Life. 

www.TotallySkewed.com

Totally Skewed: Stock soars on layoff announcement

Wall Street– June 23, 2009

American Greed Corporation stock soars 1000% on layoff announcement

Six months after receiving a tax payer-funded bailout, American Greed Corporation (AGC) has announced it will eliminate nearly all of its U.S. employment positions.

In an unprecedented warning, AGC spokesperson Ida Gatekeeper packed her desk contents and reported that American Greed Corporation will layoff 198,000 employees, representing 99.9% of the company’s U.S. workforce, within the next 10 days.

Under a newly restructured organization, AGC will retain only four of the company’s U.S. salaried employees. Among those remaining will be the company’s CEO Seymore Gold and three senior executive managers, all of whom are related to Gold either directly or indirectly through marriage.

AGC’s ten existing board of director positions will be reduced to eight. Two directors will receive preferred stock and monetary compensation for their early dismissals and agreement to decline all media inquiries forever.

As part of the business restructuring, AGC will outsource the company’s entire operations to Samoa. The company says it expects to employ Samoa’s total workforce population at wages that would insult even the most desperate American summer intern.

Asked about the economic impact such a reduction of U.S. workers could cause, Mr. Gold, AGC Chief Executive Officer, remarked, “This is part of our commitment to shareholders to remain competitive in today’s global market.” Gold added, “I’ve outlined my successful business strategies in my forthcoming book, How to Become a Billionaire When Everyone Else is Unemployed.”

American Greed Corporation stock soared 1,000 percent immediately after this layoff announcement.

In a related matter, OMG Real Estate Distrust, owners of American Greed Corporation’s campus headquarters buildings in New York City, has filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection. OMG Real Estate Distrust common stock halted trading on the New York Stock Exchange at ten cents per share.

 

Important Disclaimer: The above satirical news brief is not intended to represent any known or unknown companies , person or persons who might lack a sense of humor and attempt to claim damages as a result of this report. No real Samoans were harmed in the writing of this article. Consult your financial advisor before investing in penny stocks. OMG Real Estate Distrust, American Greed Corporation and Seymore Gold are trademarks of the current U.S. economy.

 

 

Diana Estill is the author of Deedee Divine’s Totally Skewed Guide to Life.

www.TotallySkewed.com

 

Book signings: Crazy comments

I watched a funny Youtube video about the differences between author book signings and book club visits (see the link at the end of this post), and I remembered having written down many of the silly remarks bookstore visitors have said to me during signings.  Here are just a few of the comments I’ve received from customers while standing inside a bookstore, next to a table filled with my books and a poster that says “Author signing today” :

“Do you sell lottery tickets here?”

“Where are the restrooms?”

(Asked by a man who was staring at my breasts) “Do you sell bookends?”

“Can I give you my Barnes & Noble number?”

“Can’t I just pay you? Why do I have to stand in that long checkout line?”

“When is your NEXT book coming out?” (This person didn’t buy the one currently offered.)

(After I’ve tried to hand the customer a free bookmark) “I only like the PRETTY kind, the kind you pay for.”

“I could have written THAT book!”

“This looks like a chick book. Is it?”

“Have you read (fill in any Oprah’s Book Club selection)?”

“I’ve been thinking of writing a book. Where should I start.” (It was all I could do to keep from answering “with the first word.”)

“How do I get to the restroom?” (On foot and quickly? )

“My book got published and I only sold TWO copies.” (Gee, I wonder why?)

“Is this at the library? Because if it is, I’ll read it there.”

“I ordered a book over a week ago! When is it coming in?” (The lady was asking about another author’s book.)

(Man looking at stack of books) “You’re GIVING these away?”

“Is this on Amazon?”

“Do you work here?”

(An elderly man) “Has anyone ever told you that you look like one of the Lennon Sisters?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Shirley McClain?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Carol Burnett?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Vicki Lawrence?”

“There used to be a woman who looked like you, but I forgot her name.”

(Responding to a funny grilling story that’s in my book) “Someone needs to do something about charcoal lighter fluids! They’re destroying the air!”

“Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road? ( the title of one of my books) Ha-ha-ha-ha! I do that all the time!” (These people scare me.)

“Just make it out to my wife.” (Man who doesn’t provide wife’s name)

I have another book signing tomorrow night, after which I’m sure I’ll have more material to add to this list.

Here’s the link to the video I mentioned earlier:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SufkZyIp5Fw 

 

Diana Estill’s latest book is titled Deedee Divine’s Totally Skewed Guide to Life.

Visit www.TotallySkewed.com

Why men like explosions in movies

Several friends and I recently discussed the differences between men’s and women’s tastes in movies. Guys want the films they watch to be packed with astonishing pyrotechnics that deliver excessive jolts of adrenaline.

“If something doesn’t blow up in the first 15 minutes, my friend’s spouse confessed, “I’m out of there.”

The other men seated at our restaurant table nodded in agreement.

We ladies shared a knowing laugh.

Right then, one of the kitchen’s wait staff dropped what sounded like a four-piece serving for 50. The concerned gentleman seated next to me applauded. 

Why are men so enamored with things that go “BANG?” I wondered. Perhaps the male of our species welcomes anything that interrupts otherwise constant thoughts of sex.

Nah, that can’t be it. Nothing could be that jarring.

When it comes to movies, men are attracted to explosions and fires and guns that go “POW!” because viewing these forces allows them to satisfy their urges to eliminate opposition.

Think you won that last argument with your man? Nope. He obliterated your score while watching Transformers. You just don’t know it.

Gals, here’s the deal. Men are physically wired to want something to erupt—loudly. As long as there is plenty of noise, they can avoid listening to us talk.

Furthermore, car explosions and artillery bombs and asteroid collisions boost men’s confidence because they’re always looking for an equalizer to prove size really doesn’t matter. Uh-huh. They’ve never been fully convinced. 

The metaphorical links between explosions and heated desires have been well established for eons. Good grief, “combustible” even contains the word “bust”.

To a guy, there’s nothing more thrilling than giant fireballs spewing debris and carnage. Don’t ask them to watch a movie that has a dramatic plot, one with actual dialogue and fully clothed stars. That would require too much cerebral effort for anything that lacks a powerful climax.

However, when I’m watching a movie, if something blows up during the first 15 minutes then I expect whatever follows to be a two-hour waste.

Unless, of course, that is the inciting incident that sends the heroine on a journey of self-discovery that takes her to some exotic locale, wherein she will meet some gorgeous hunk of hormones who is suffering some similarly tragic loss, and they will fall in love, drift apart, and then through some chance event reunite and eventually marry and live harmoniously, despite having four children, two dogs, a cat, an iguana and one mother-in-law sharing their quarters.

See, women are just more realistic when it comes to what they expect from films.

 

 

 

www.TotallySkewed.com

Book Expo America: an inside look

 

Having spent the past three days at Book Expo America, in New York City, I am now home. Seated comfortably in a lounge chair in my backyard, near Dallas, TX, I consider the contrast in these two vastly different environments.

It is quiet here, with only the occasional hum from a distant passing automobile. Purple finches and cardinals serenade from the trees overhead. Trickling streams cascade over a rock waterfall. My cat roams, searching for any sign of invaders.

This is not New York. Not even its distant cousin.

This is the space I share with my husband, an oasis from outside concerns, a place where I find solitude when needed.  However, only a day ago, in New York City, the scene looked more like this:

 Inside the Marriott Marquis Hotel I am challenged to select, from a series of alphabetized doors, the correct elevator to carry me to street level. 

Outside, throngs of tourists and locals compete for pavement along with schools of taxis, snaking busses and viciously circling Lincoln Town Cars. Horns blare, despite posted signs that threaten to fine violators $350 per offense.

Pedestrians pay no mind to walk lights or each other. Once caught in the flow of traffic, individuals must keep moving or risk being pounded by those who surely will.

Inside the Javits Convention Center, the cars, busses and taxis are no longer a threat. But the foot traffic is equally, if not more, hazardous than it is outdoors.

In here, there are no traffic lights or unified patterns. Booksellers, publishers, authors, librarians, literary agents and others move about at every imaginable pace—and in no particular direction.

People dressed as storybook characters wander through the crowds. These whimsical figures mix incongruently with the bikini-clad women who’re offering free pina coladas.

An extraterrestrial-looking costumed pair holds a sign advertising a book about alien abductions. I can’t help myself. I laugh at their gray masks.

There is something here for everyone, whether fans of Harper Collins, Harlequin, Hay House, or L. Ron Hubbard.

A super-sized inflated Clifford greets visitors to the main floor atrium where media members periodically collect to film a variety of authors.

Educational classes are underway on the lower level. Inside the ballrooms, sessions are filled to standing room only capacities. I attend a few sessions, climbing over floor squatters to reach whatever crannies haven’t yet been occupied.

Every hour or half hour, depending on a predetermined schedule, authors rotate in and out from behind 30 autograph tables. Between classes, I bounce from line to line to obtain signed books and have my picture taken with The View host Sherri Shepherd.

Predominately, the action takes place on the main level, around the Random House, Simon & Schuster, Harper Collins and other major publishers’ booths. In these areas, ARCs (advanced reading copies) are distributed to those who arrive early enough to grab them. Occasionally, an author such as James Patterson may make a brief appearance.

I spot sex therapist Dr. Ruth Westheimer, whom I had previously thought was dead. What can I say? Believe me, I’m not the only one who’s admitted this.

 At the Ingram booth, a collection of gawkers (including myself) watches the new Espresso machine (billed as the “ATM for books”) print out an entire book, cover and all, within seconds.

By midday, my hands ache from hauling an ever-growing stash of books. My feet are throbbing from traversing the gargantuan facility, and I am tired of dodging those who are clearly more important to the book trade than I.

A stop for some much needed bottled water sets me back $3.75, but that’s just part of the carnival-like experience. In the old days, pre-recession, many of the publishers dispensed water and sodas for free. For the most part, those times have disappeared. I’m sure the food vendors aren’t disappointed.

My latest book has been nominated for an award. I try to appear happy when the winners’ names are announced, though mine is not among them. Oh, well, I tell myself, God must have something better for me. I force a smile and keep moving.

By the end of day two, I’ve scored a private meeting with an editor of a major publishing house, met a man I’ve been trying to contact for months (and nabbed his personal email address) and developed tons of new book marketing ideas. None of this, I realize, would have been possible from home, though by now I sorely miss the tranquility of Texas.

At night, in Time Square, I again meld with the undulating masses, snapping photos whenever safety permits. It seems as if I’m the only object here that’s not in perpetual motion.

Suddenly I am struck by this revelation: I am but a single pixel in a mural of humanity.

That’s easy to forget, sometimes. Especially when I’m sitting quietly at home in my backyard.

 

 

 

 

 

Diana Estill is the author of Deedee Divine’s Totally Skewed Guide to Life.

Pain in the Pumps

Pain in the Pumps

 

In less than a decade I’ve advanced from strutting in stilettos to longing for a pair of crepe soled loafers. My feet have been permanently altered by years of fashion following. I was dumb enough to fall for the hype that suggested “hot” women wear high heels. Believe me, there’s no truth to this. I’m overheated right now, and I’m barefoot.

Men supposedly get a lift from looking at gals who’re wearing three-inch pumps. But I’ve concluded the only guys who notice women’s shoes are ones who want to borrow them.

All this agony my toes have suffered never brought me an ounce of male attention—other than from a few podiatrists.

In my youth, I wore spike heels to make my legs look shapely. Those shoes might have worked great for my calves, but they turned my feet into heifer hooves.

I tell you all this to explain why I purchased a promising medical aid that I’ll refer to here as “Torture Toes.”

Supposedly, after wearing these devices for several hours each day, my feet will return to their natural shape, to the way they looked before I forced them into countless days of confinement in pointy-toe, elevated footwear that made me prance like a pony and left me hobbling like a lame horse.

 

When my toe spreaders arrived, I excitedly put them on. I’d ordered a size “S”, which I thought stood for “Small” but must have indicated “Sasquatch.”

Twenty seconds after I’d smashed my feet into these miracle cures, I lost all sensation below my ankles. Minutes later, when the feeling returned, I felt like someone was ripping me apart, one Little Piggy at a time! If militaries ever discover this product they’ll use it instead of “waterboarding.”

Soon after I’d fitted my toe spreaders in place a searing pain radiated up both legs. I chewed my fingernails. Then I bit my cuticles. Right then I understood why trapped animals sometimes free themselves by gnawing off an appendage.

“Ou-ou-ouch!” I screamed. “I can’t take this another second!”

My husband, who was seated comfortably next to me in his reading chair, looked up from a novel. Evidencing his keen observation skills, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“These things are KILLING me!” I bounced my heels on the ottoman in front of me, keeping time with the throbbing pulse I could now feel in both knees.

Ever the caring spouse, hubby replied, “Don’t worry. I’ll take them off of you if you pass out.”

“Oh, you are too kind,” I said. “Why don’t YOU try wearing them?”

“I don’t need to wear them,” he offered dryly. “I’ve never worn high heels.”

“Well, Mr. Smarty-feet, I bet you couldn’t make it 20 minutes in these things.”

“Sure I could,” he said. “Give ‘em here.”

I released my tootsies from their imprisonment and handed over the challenge.

Wise Guy claimed the Torture Toes were too big for him too. But eventually he managed, with my help, to cram them onto his superior feet.

Moments later, I noticed him eyeing the bedroom clock. “How long has it been?” he asked.

“Not twenty minutes,” I replied. I shot him a victory smile. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“It tingles a bit.”

To prove his point, hubby wore the Torture Toes exactly 26 minutes—just long enough to beat my time. Then he took them off and declared, “The numbness finally stopped.”

I located the Torture Toes carrying pouch and read the attached instructions. “If numbness or burning occurs, discontinue use.”

It’s a shame stilettos don’t carry the same warning.

Can funny books offer a message?

“What’s the message you’re trying to get across with your books?” my marketing guru friend Kadena asked.

 

Message? Did I have one? If so, it must have been a subconscious desire. I thought I was hoping simply to entertain readers with my stories. I’ve said that “I help find the fun in life’s frustrations.” But perhaps there was something more going on. Maybe it was time to reexamine my intent.

 

If I’m being honest, I have to admit that I write most of my humor essays as a form of personal therapy. As one who has a magnetic attraction to calamities, I write to cope with chaos. Life for me and my brood often turns crazy, complicated and confusing. And when it does, I stop and ponder this question: What’s funny about this?

 

If I think about most any situation long enough, my anxiety, anger, or compulsion to consume an entire box of sugar cookies in one sitting passes. Before I know it, I’m laughing at the very events that earlier might have left me contemplating revenge or, at a minimum, a retaliatory shopping spree. Just ask my husband about the ring I purchased while he was on a solo trip to New York. Yeah, I don’t get mad. I get jewelry.

 

Anyway, in tracing a positive (as opposed to a precious gemstone) path through undesirable situations, I’m leaving a trail for others to follow.

 

Jack Canfield summed it best in his book, The Success Principles: How to Get from Where You Are to Where You Want to Be, when he cited the formula “E+R = O.” This equation signifies that life events, plus our reactions to those events, equal the resulting outcomes.

 

At some time, we all suffer undesired or unintended situations. That’s just part of the human experience. We can’t always control life, but we can take charge of how we respond to the events that occur. If we hold on to these negative experiences, fret about them, rehash the perceived injustice or unfairness we’ve endured, then we’ll have an entirely different outcome than we might if we dealt differently with our emotions.

 

There is no better way to overcome life’s annoyances than to laugh at them. When we become amused with ourselves and our foibles, then we are free to move forward in a new direction. With fewer accessories, perhaps, but still….

 

If there is an overall lesson in my stories and books, then learning to find the levity that’s sometimes hidden in life’s challenges is it. I strive to follow this practice (though often with scant success). “We teach best that which we most need to learn.”

 

I have to keep sharing my silly tales so I can move closer to my desired level of harmony. No doubt, many readers will arrive well ahead of me. I’m a terribly slow learner. But as long as I’m laughing, I’ll be okay.

 

 

Diana Estill (aka Deedee Divine) is the author of Deedee Divine’s Totally Skewed Guide to Life.

Why GM Can’t Sell Cars

Recently a man in Ohio was arrested and pleaded not guilty to charges of operating a vehicle while intoxicated. This wouldn’t have been newsworthy if the guy hadn’t been driving a motorized BAR STOOL! (To see a photo of the “vehicle” visit this link: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/03/31/kile-wygle-gets-dui-on-mo_n_181264.html.)

 

I can’t decide which is funnier: the fact that this driver pleaded innocent, or the idea that anyone would motorize an object that’s difficult enough to balance upon when one is both sober and stationary.

 

When folks start strapping lawnmower engines to furniture, it’s time for a significant decline in automobile and gasoline prices.

 

I figure this guy was given several citations. (How could he have obtained a registration license and insurance for a gas-powered bar stool?) Wouldn’t you have loved to have read the police officer’s report? Especially the part that listed the make and model of the vehicle: Toro Bistro, 24-inch, convertible, modified.

This is one time when the alleged DUI offender can honestly say he never even left his stool! 

 

 

 

Diana Estill is the author of Deedee Divine’s Totally Skewed Guide to Life.

www.TotallySkewed.com

Totally Skewed: Walking shoe woes

 

Treading Lightly

 

 

“Hey, neat shoes,” I said to my daughter-in-law Julie.

“Yeah, I just got ‘em,” she replied jutting out one foot and examining it. “They’re AVIAs.” 

I tried to think which of her friends was named Avia.

Julie noted my expression. “You know … the brand?

“No, I don’t know athletic shoe brands. I buy a pair once every four or five years,” I confessed. I kicked out one leg, offering a wrecked Reebok™ for inspection. “I think I got these back in 2004, when I went to Disney World with you guys.”

“Mom!” my son the competitive runner chimed in. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to replace your running shoes every six months?”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you break them down, wear ‘em out.”

“Only if you do something strenuous in them, like actually run,” I clarified.

“No,” he insisted, “even if you’re just walking in them.”

“But I’m mostly walking indoors, on carpet,” I explained. To damage soles, I figured I’d need to be doing something athletic—like maybe cleaning out the garage.

According to what I’ve since verified from a Google search, my shoes could have aged before I ever bought them. It’s possible I’ve had a sort of “dead shoe walking,” if you will. One website suggested that the glue could have already been drying out and the air pockets dissipating before my footwear ever left the store shelf!

I had to admit the only thing I wanted to find deflated about my sneakers was the price.

The article I was reading suggested asking the sales clerk how long the sports shoes had been in the store. But given the current environment, I suspect it would be difficult to find a salesman who’s been on the job longer than the merchandise has been on sale.

One report I checked said that running (or in my case, shuffling) shoes should be replaced every 500 miles. I did the math. I walk about 15 miles per week—when I get motivated. That happens only when the outdoor temperatures climb above 50 degrees or I’ve eaten a platter full of pasta.

By my calculations, I should be able to go 9 months before wearing out a pair of sneakers. At a cost of roughly $60 a pair, if I follow the 500-mile replacement rule, by the time I’ve walked 50,000 miles I will have spent $6,000 on athletic shoes.  

So my question is simply this; if a set of auto tires that cost $600 will carry me 50,000 miles powered by a gasoline engine then why the heck should I pay 10 times that much for tread to help me walk the same distance?

Even after factoring in fuel cost, it’s cheaper to drive than use my own two legs.

Excuse #964: With shoe prices at current levels, I simply can’t afford to exercise.

 

Diana Estill is the author of Deedee Divine’s Totally Skewed Guide to Life. This book has been nominated as a ForeWord Magazine 2008 Book of the Year. For more information, visit: www.TotallySkewed.com.

Irish lies: funny facts about St. Patrick’s Day

For one day each year, on March 17, anyone can claim to be Irish. Forget whatever your family might have told you. On St. Patrick’s Day, you’re Irish if you’ve ever worn plaid, eaten a potato, or seen Riverdance.

So how can you distinguish between those who really are Irish and those who are simply looking for an excuse to spend their day drinking green beer? Here’s a clue; if the person in question resembles a Hobbit, probably they’re a true Irishman. Ask this individual to tell you his idea of dinner and a movie. If he answers, “A six-pack of Killian’s and a Rocky rerun,” then he’s actually Irish.

I know it’s unfair to presume that all people of Irish heritage are drunk and violent. Pulitzer prize-winning author Frank McCourt wrote Angela’s Ashes, which just goes to prove that the Irish can be drunk and literary.

Here’s another fact that may surprise you. Saint Patrick wasn’t even Irish! Nope. He was born in Britain and sold into slavery as a teen. Patrick then became imprisoned in Ireland, where he was forced to work as a shepherd for six years. It was there, in the fields, during his endless hours of isolation, that he, like so many modern day prisoners, found religion.

Eventually, Saint Patrick, who was then known only as Patrick, or, by the sheep, as “the guy with the big staff,” escaped to freedom and returned to his homeland.

Now, my first question was this: Why the heck did it take a guy who was out in the middle of nowhere SIX years to escape his captors? The only explanation I can offer is that it was the sheep’s fault. They kept following him and giving away his whereabouts.

When Patrick arrived home, all fired up with Christianity and lacking a dry erase board, he began using three-leaf clovers (shamrocks) to illustrate The Trinity. This, of course, immediately caused him to be sent back to Ireland. “Hey, I think you might be on to something, here,” said his fellow believers. Greeting him in much the same way as I deal with multi-level salesmen, his kinsmen suggested, “Why don’t you go convert those pagans who enslaved you?”

Patrick returned to Ireland, where he not only preached his faith but also became a legend among rats. Yes, rats. You see, it is believed that one of Saint Patrick’s hilltop speeches was so terrifying that it drove every snake from Ireland. This, naturally, permitted rats to overthrow the previous animal administration and made possible the movie Ben.

Much Irish folklore has little to do with St. Patrick’s Day. For instance, I can find no valid support for the belief in four-leaf clover. From what I can tell, Saint Patrick had nothing to do with this idea. Quite possibly the search for a four-leaf (and thus, rare) clover was a myth originated by an intoxicated partygoer who needed an excuse for being found face-down on his lawn.

In any event, we currently celebrate the life of Saint Patrick on March 17—the date of his death. I find this strange, given that most ceremonious days commemorate a great leader’s birth. It’s apparent who’s to blame for the mix-up.

Everyone knows you can’t trust a bunch of snakes.

 

Diana Estill is the author of Deedee Divine’s Totally Skewed Guide to Life.  Read more humor at www.TotallySkewed.com.