When I was a kid my dad always tried to make a big deal out of us being Irish (the only ones in town),
but who gives a shit what your dad says when you’re young? Certainly
not me. When we got a little older my dad came up with the idea that on
St. Patrick’s Day, he would administer a quiz to my brother and me on
the history of Irish saints; the winner would get a pizza from TA-DA! Roma’s.
A week or so before the 17th he’d give us some big, over-the-top dry
book to read on the subject. My brother would actually read it; I’d get
to page 3 and then start wondering if I’d rather be in Def Leppard or
Duran Duran (trick question – I’d be better off being a dead Irish saint.)
So guess who would win the “competition”? But the thing is, I’d still
get the pizza – the pizza would come, and I’d hafta toast to
Brothatime!!’s Irish brilliance, but I’d do it with a mouthful of cheese
and grease on my face. To this day, I live by that creed: "I will not
read for pizza."