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BY ALEX GINSBERG

In print | Published March 24, 2005

Saint Patrick’s Day is always fun, but I’m glad it comes only once a year. The day also brings something most frightful and destructive: the Saint Patty’s Day Curse. For those unfamiliar with this dreadful phenomenon, let me tell you about the horror that is the Saint Patrick’s Day Curse.

Saint Patrick’s Day is a religious holiday honoring the patron saint of Ireland. However, like many other traditions, the North American version of this holiday is bastardized and consumer-driven; people ignorant of the true meaning of Saint Patty’s Day take part in the celebration. Most people have no appreciation for its significance whatsoever. When the Irish government began using St. Patrick’s Day as a tourism tool in 1995, it was the final straw: the Saint Patty’s Day curse was born.

The curse strikes those who do not honor the true significance of the holiday but still try to take part in the celebration. It causes an unhealthy increase in indulgence, resulting in mumbling and laughter as well as rowdy, inappropriate and sometimes violent behavior. Worst, though, is the curse’s ability to erase memory. Victims are left embarrassed as their friends recount terrifying stories of forgotten streaking, fighting or public urination.

Last Thursday, many people fell victim to the curse. As early as 9 p.m., obscenities could be heard echoing throughout campus, and I saw at least four people asleep around campus (of course, in places I recommended). Unfortunately, I was one of the victims.

Walking into Pub Nite at 9:30 p.m. on St. Patrick’s Day, I was totally unprepared for the imminent disaster. The room was crowded as ever and back to its normal pungency. However, someone was there whom I had never met before. His name was Skippy. I can only say one thing about this guy: He’s a friend for a night, but an enemy for life. As I watched him consume the sanity of my friends, I felt his grip on my memory closing tight.

I know that I slept out somewhere on campus Thursday night, because one of my pillows has gone missing. The question is, where? The curse left me several clues with which to solve this mystery.

“King’s ransom:” For some reason, this phrase was stuck in my head all day Friday. I’m not sure what it means except that it is chronologically the first thing I recall from Thursday, meaning I encountered a King’s Ransom near Pub Night.

Ladders: Unintelligible as this may sound, I have a strange memory of looking at ladders, though I’m not sure if I did any climbing.

A green hand: When I woke up on Friday, I noticed that my left hand was completely green.

From these clues, I came up with one hypothesis about Thursday night. After leaving Pub Night, I saw a leprechaun running away with the King’s ransom. I followed him to his lair up at the top of the ladder — which also happens to be the bottom of the rainbow. When he saw me, he tried to kill me, because no human is ever allowed to see a leprechaun’s lair. In the scuffle, I got some of his blood on me before escaping.

Upon review, I realized how unrealistic my idea was. Everyone knows that leprechauns only live in Ireland. So although I don’t exactly remember where I turned up on the night of Saint Patrick’s Day, I learned an important lesson. Taking part in a religious celebration without knowing, let alone understanding, its significance, is dangerous and inappropriate. From now on, I will either do my research or stay at home.

That said, if anyone has any idea about my whereabouts that night, please let me know.

Alex is a first-year. You can reach him at aginsbe1@swarthmore.edu.

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