“Never iron a four-leaf clover, because you don't want to press your luck.”

- Unknown

Kiss me, I'm Irish. Now that is a statement that I can make with full knowledge that tomorrow I won't be slapped with a harassment complaint. Monday morning brings with it a holiday I was born to enjoy, St. Patrick's day.

If you're one of the many like me who never reads the byline then please, take this moment to skip to the bottom of the column and see what it says (don't worry, I'll wait) And what did we find? Molloy. Oh yes, I'm Irish. That means that at some point in my family tree one of the roots decided that the Emerald Isle wasn't all it was cracked up to be and wanted to know if the grass was greener on the other side of the ocean.

I assume there is a great story that goes along with how the Molloy clan came to America but I've never really looked into it too hard because, to be frank, I'm lazy. That and the way I see it is if I was a long lost descendant of a king then I'd already have some interesting title like Earl or Duke. Instead the closest I get to Prince is listening to the Purple Rain album.

I'm also not so sure if I really have what it takes to be “Irish” in any meaningful way. For instance in Ireland there is a legend that if you kiss the Blarney Stone you'll be granted the gift of charming and expressive speech. So far as I can recall the only time I was granted expressive speech from a rock was when my brother threw one at me. The words that poured from my lips were nothing close to charming.

But, like any good Irishman, I will bask in the holiday of my heritage from sun up to sun down. For starters, I plan on beginning my day with a big bowl of Lucky Charms. I'll still take my morning shower but instead of Dove soap I'll use Irish Spring. Perhaps I might even forego my usual bathroom musical with an accent inspired rendition of “Danny Boy.” Though I don't know if the bagpipes will fit behind the curtain, that won't stop me from trying.

I'll of course be wearing a green shirt and tie, and since it's the holiday, I'll throw on my “lucky” pair of shamrock boxers, as well. (Don't worry, I'll have pants on too, sorry to disappoint). At work, I'll answer my phone using only limericks and when confronted by the accounting department about payroll, I'll shout “Quit trying to steal me gold!”

I'm sure that outburst will grant me a get-out-of-work-early pass (told you the boxers were lucky) and then it's off to meet my friends who, even though their last names are Karminsky and Lopez, are enjoying the holiday as much as I am. And that's the real beauty of St. Patrick's Day. No matter where you hail from, on March 17, you're Irish. Now about that kiss.

Auburn native Bradley Molloy's column appears here, each

Sunday, in The Citizen.

He can be reached at lovonian@hotmail.com