|May the road rise to meet ya and|
your bowl be full o'kibble, says Euka.
You know you're German, right? I said. On both sides. If there's any Irish in your heritage, it's a closely held family secret, mein kinder.
Ma, he says. Everybody's Irish on St. Patrick's Day. You know that.
He speaks the truth, my smart kid. And so to honor this bit o'the green that lives in all of us this fine holiday, we bring you the best I can manage this afternoon.
Photos of the dogs wearing head boppers.
What'd ya expect from me? I come from a German heritage. And hillbilly. A long line of hillbilly. Sorry 'bout your luck on that stellar lineage, kid.
|Good grief, is that a come hither look or what? |
Kiss me, says Euka. What's the Irish word for tart?
|Micron wants to know to say|
I don't wanna play this game in Gaelic.
There once was a Boxer named Pete,
Who had an obsession with feet;
And when he sniffed toes,
He dove in with his nose,
'Cause nothing ever smelled quite as sweet.