This morning, I awoke to a voice in my ear:

“Why don’t you iron four-leaf clovers?”
I rolled over and looked at the clock, which said 5:20 a.m.
“Ugh, Moonie, couldn’t you have waited another hour for the alarm to go off?”
“Because you don’t want to press your luck!” he shouted, undaunted at my morning grumpiness.

He had more.

“What do you get when you cross a shamrock and poison ivy?”
I sighed, stretching. “What, Moonie?”
“A rash of good luck!”

I turned on the light, resigning myself to being up for the day, and was greeted with this sight:

“What is that in your hair?” I asked.
“Saint Patrick’s Day!” Moonie shouted. It was green, and it was shiny. It’s all he needed.

He had more jokes.

“How can you tell if an Irishman is having a good time?”
“How, Moonie?”
“He’s Dublin over with laughter!” Moonie shouted, hooting.

“What would you get if you crossed Christmas with Saint Patrick’s Day?”
“What, Moonie?”
“Saint O’Claus!”

“Why did Saint Patrick drive all the snakes out of Ireland?”
“Why, Moonie?”
“He couldn’t afford all their plane tickets!” he shouted, actually rolling off the bed in laughter. His shiny shamrock stayed perfectly in his hair as he hopped right back up.

“What kind of music do leprechauns like to listen to?”
“What, Moonie?”
“Sham-rock and roll!” He kicked his feet in mirth so hard he fell off the bed again.

“Are you OK?” I asked, looking down at the floor, and he smiled up at me, his shiny shamrock still in place.

“Knock knock!” he responded.
I sighed. “Who’s there?”
“Irish!”
“Irish who?”
“Irish you a happy St. Patrick’s Day!”

And that goes for all of you.