Leprechauns are my new nemesis

I f*$%ing hate leprechauns. They are the worst. If, when you imagine a leprechaun, you think of the Lucky Charms cereal guy, you need to start in on the Weetabix, because it is all a lie.

No.

You may be wondering, “Kate, why do you have such a fiery passion against these cheerful little faerie f*$%s?” Well I’ll tell you.

On one of my first days in Dublin, I placed myself among the group of approximately 30 foreigners who said, “school doesn’t start for like six days. We have absolutely nothing to do. Let’s go get lost.” So, into the city we went, herding around like a pack of mules saying “what do you want to do?” “I don’t know.” “Do you want to go anywhere?” “I don’t really mind” “Is there anything you need to get?” “I don’t have a clue.” Finally, one person said they needed to go get a blender or someshit from a department store. So off we went. By that time of course, it was rush hour and Dublin foot traffic was getting hairy. As a result, the group got separated, the pack lost their direction and everyone started milling about going “Ohhhh… ohhhh… what do we do?” Something had to be done.

In the far lands of OOvah, also known as U.Va., I have earned amongst my companions the title of “SafetyKate.” This means that, whenever we go out, I become the go to person for decisions. It is my job to keep everyone happy and alive. Which is what I did.

Friends, standing on a bridge: Where do we go?

Me: That way.

~10 feet later~

Friends: Where do we go now?

Me: That way.

~About 11 feet later~

Friends: Ummm… so… what are we supposed to do?

Me: GWRAAAAAARRRRRR

Surveying the immediate territory in a foreign city, I made an executive decision. We were going to the one thing nearby at 4pm which had clear signs pointing the way and could entertain a group of that size for an hour or so before pubs offered us a chance to forget all about it. We were going to the leprechaun museum.

Two signs and thirty minutes later, no leprechaun museum in sight and the pack growing restless and movements becoming more concentric by the minute, I had a moment of truth in the setting sun. Taking a breath, I walked into a nearby arts center, swallowed my pride and asked the most shameful question an American tourist in Ireland could possibly fathom.

“Where… is… the leprechaun museum?”

The arts clerk gave me a smirk and replied, “Oh yeah about that, we can’t really afford to change the signs because it brings everybody down here, but it’s on the other side of the river.”

We hit the bar immediately.

That's right. You get a screen shot. Of a Google map. Of the leprechaun museum.

So, as you can see, the entire pot of gold phenomenon is no child’s play. It represents a giant cover up by the Irish government to boost sales in the Temple Bar district. And it’s succeeding.

That is not to say that I have not seen leprechauns. Most of them work at UCD. I will be minding my own business in the Newman arts building or the library and one will almost bowl me over on their way to teach a class or reshelf a book (bottom shelf). I have even seen a leprechaun chieftain. He looked like a twelve year old boy with a soul patch.

In conclusion, leprechauns are a snotty bunch of social miscreants who spend their time tormenting students and fabricating marketing schemes. If you see one, punch it. Maybe you’ll get a shamrock.