I’m Not Irish

As some of my readers may know, I’m not Irish.

In a tip of the flat cap to the Irish, I picked up a “shake” at a giant hamburger chain; sadly, the minty beverage has been bastardized into a sorry mess I could barely recognize from the early days of its invention in 1970. The horrid treat was served in plastic, with whip cream and a cherry on top.

What was I thinking?

I sipped half of it and then dumped the rest down the drain when I got home.

I contemplated contacting the giant hamburger chain at their “How are we doing” toll-free number, but it didn’t seem like the best use of my time. Other disappointed nostalgic 48-year-old women have probably already written to them.

I checked my tomatoes.

This was the best green thing of the day; a little metaphorical four leaf clover.

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One Response to I’m Not Irish

  1. Lee Annie Leonie says:

    I almost bought one of those shakes the other day for the same nostalgic feeling. Thanks for the warning. Lots of things aren’t the way we remembered at age 9.

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