The Race for the Coors...er, Guinness

So Sunday I was sitting in my livingroom, reading and wondering what to write for today, when I heard a shout from outside.

"Ohhhh! Ayyyy!"

Tossing aside my book and dashing to the door, I spied a middle-aged man in a green plaid kilt running by the house, making a good pace and giving another militaristic hoot before he disappeared entirely from view.

"Hm," I said to myself. Because, while jogging is popular in my neighborhood, the kilts are usually kept to a minimum....

Not WIND-RESISTANT, ya know.

"Must be something St. Paddy's-related," I considered. A man in a green kilt on March 16? Oh yes, I am DEEPLY perceptive. NOTHING gets by me.

At this point, my housemate called down from her office upstairs. "What WAS it?"

"A man wind-sprinting in a kilt."

"Oh," she said. "Right." Like this was an everyday thing for her. Like once a week Connor MacLeod and his entire Highlander clan came sweeping into her workplace, plaid flying, shouting, "There can be only one!" to a Queen soundtrack.

(Actually, she'd like that. I probably would've heard about it.)

"And here's a girl running after him," I called up the stairs shortly. And sure enough, a girl in a nylon jacket and running gear went sprinting by at full tilt, hot on his heels.

Housemate: "That's.... interesting."

Well, it sure as heck was better than my book, anyway.

I waited.

And I was rewarded by a new actor entering the stage.

"NOW, there's a man with a dog chasing after HER," I added, feeling I might as well give the play-by-play. I described the man with green spandex shorts and a sleek greyhound (not in spandex) who breezed by. It was beginning to look like a "Jeeves and Wooster" third act. But they vanished.

The street was empty.

I started back to my favorite chair, but hadn't gotten far when another "Ohhhhh! Ayyyyyyy!" reached my ears.

I dropped my book and again scrambled to the window. THIS shouting was caused by a man putting some serious effort into his running, and wearing a green derby perched jauntily on his head. A derby which didn't move one bit in the wind, I might add. A ten for balance! A 9.5 for form! Impressive!

Now they were coming in droves. People in green spangled shorts were right behind. Followed by a woman jogging in shamrock-shaped deely-boppers, which jounced and bounced with every step.

Now Leprechauns with emerald green boas!... Now Jolly Green Giants with Chuck Taylors!... It looked like a high-impact aerobics version of a"Let's Make a Deal" gameshow audience.

You know, it fills my heart with gladness that the world is so bizarre I don't even have to leave my house to get material for a post. I've lived here for six years. Who knew I was on the route for a local St. Patrick's Day jog-a-thon?

Of course, this got me thinking about what this jog-a-thon was actually for. I mean, these were not idle runners, just putting their time in for the St. Paddy's holiday, were they? The way these folks were running, something was at stake. A good cause? A trophy? The pot o' gold at the end of the rainbow? The case o' Guinness at the end of the finish line?

How about a free one-year supply of Lucky Charms? (I'd be all over that myself. That stuff really IS magically delicious!)

Or how about some of THESE?


No, no, do not be deceived-- they're not "Sno-Balls," the pink or white coconut-covered cakes of our youth. These are DIFFERENT. These are "Lucky Puffs." Because they're green, donchaknow. The Marketers have deemed it so.

Why change the name of the Sno-Balls entirely, just for St. Patrick's Day? Because "Lucky Balls" would have caused a baked goods scandal, that's why. And "Saint Patrick's Balls" would only be worse. I can just see moms picketing the Hostess plant talking about the offensiveness of snack cake nomenclature these days, and kids having entirely too much fun with it at lunchtime.

Well, I did a bit of online research, and not a single St. Paddy's Day race could I find listed in my area.

Was it a parade which took a strange, Olympic turn? Was it a pub-wide bet after too many black-and-tans? Maybe it was a series of athletic, poorly-dressed banshees on the misty suburban moors o' Pittsburgh?

We may never know.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, my friends! And slainte!


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Green beer goes perfectly with a side of Humor-blogs.