At first, I have to admit, I thought it was a good idea.
Who wouldn't want a leprechaun? If given the opportunity, I think most of us would leap at the chance. I mean, most people have a dog or a cat, some even have an exotic bird, but really, how many people do you know have their own personal leprechaun? I'm guessing not many.
A few years ago, I traveled to Ireland and fell in love with the country immediately. It may possibly be the most beautiful place on earth. One day, all of my friends went on a day trip, while I decided to stay behind at the house and take the day for myself. Around noon, I walked into town for a some lunch and a pint. I was breathing in the fresh Irish air, when I noticed a dog had started to follow me. I kept hearing what sounded like a voice, and finally I stopped and turned around. There, clutched in the dog's mouth, was a leprechaun. Long story short, I gently pried the dog's jaws open and freed the leprechaun, and now, I can't get rid of the little bastard.
I keep telling him a simple thank you is more than enough, but it just won't do. Whenever I tell him this, he always responds "Whoever saves one life, saves the world entire". Yeah, that's right, he's quoting the freaking Talmud. Apparently, I have the world's only jewish leprechaun, and I am the Oskar Schindler of Ireland. Honestly, I wouldn't mind if he was as grateful as he sounds, but the truth is, he's a pain in my ass.
The problems started when he moved in. I get a knock at the door one day, and there he is with some leprechaun friends and U-Haul. First, I have no room for all his stereo equipment. Speakers, woofers, sub-woofers - I mean, it is a ridiculous set-up. No one that tiny should have anything that takes up an entire wall. Then I caught one of his little buddies going through my underwear drawer "looking for gold" in my underpants. I have no idea what that even means, but he sure got a big laugh out of it.
The bitch of it all is, the friends never left. They're still here. All 32 of them. It's like having 32 cats. Or 64 hamsters. I can barely get through the living room without tripping over dozens of tiny buckled shoes. My couch now has hundreds of pipe-burns, and my pay-per-view bill is insane. Say what you will about leprechauns, they love their porn. And "Judge Judy", for reasons I still haven't figured out. He keeps saying he's going to kick in a little something for rent and utilities, but have I seen any cash? Hell, no. He keeps giving me some excuse about how he's waiting for his pot of gold to clear customs or some bullshit. I'm really starting to feel like I'm being taken advantage of here.
Plus, they are always around. ALWAYS. The other night, me and the future Mrs. Wonderhorse were feeling a little frisky, and we start to get our naked on. Before I can barely get my pants off, I notice a couple of those little fuckers sitting on the dresser WATCHING. Just kicking back like it's a football match at the local parish. I told them to get the hell out, and they said, "Oh, don't mind us, boyo." I had to chuck a book at them to get them to move, and even then, they just slowly walked away, muttering something. Whatever it was, I'm pretty sure it wasn't good.
Also, they're always complaining about the food. Every night, they want corned beef and cabbage. Don't get me wrong, I love corned beef and cabbage, just not every fucking night. I make up some spaghetti, and they just look at me as if I've served them a steaming plate of dog vomit. So, they just sit there, twirling the noodles with their forks, giving me the stink-eye. Don't even get me started on the smell of the place. I know, I was like you - I always thought leprechauns would smell like spun gold and cotton candy. No, they smell like all people who live outside. Imagine asking the wino who lives on the corner if you could wear his clothes for the day. Now imagine that smell greets you when you come home from work, every day. Let it be known, leprechauns stink.
Look, I just want to clear one thing up. I'm Irish, I love all things Irish. Love the Guinness, love the Jameson's, love the Harp, love the music, love the accent, love the land, love everything about the Irish. But after 56 rousing choruses of "The Rocky Road to Dublin" at 3:00 in the morning, even Michael Collins' patience would be tested. I need him to move out. One on one, he's not a bad guy, he's got some great stories and a wicked sense of humor. It just that there are SO MANY of them. I just don't think this is working out. I think he's going to have to go.
Never should have stopped that dog.
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