Sorry. I'm late - I was busy being groped

Sorry. I'm late - I was busy being groped at the airport. I gotta tell you, that's the first time I let another guy touch my junk when I couldn't blame it on too many beers.

Yeah, the last time I woke up after a drunken binge with a new tattoo emblazed across my back. I'm not really sure what "Sweet" referred to, but my friend had "Dude" on his back so

we both committed suicide rather than relive the worst movie of all time. Our story would have ended here, if not for the zombie apocalypse that had been set off on the next block.

Queen Street was not known for brainy folk, but it would have to do. Lurching toward the neighborhood, our deadened ears could still now hear the ice cream truck approaching.

So I rolled grandma in her wheelchair real slow. She collided with the Good Humor bumper. The driver was drunk and didn't see her. She got stuck under the truck. She sparked

up a doobie and inhaled real deep. Grandma was like that. It took more than a ice cream truck and a pair of worthless legs to keep her down. She rolled to the side and sank her

fingers deep into the rich, dark earth. "See?" she smiled, "this is the kind of dirt we had as kids, back when the Depression was just a twinkle in FDR's eyes." I leaned in closer

& the wet scent of humus triggered something deeply rooted in my own soul's soil. Innocence maybe. Or loss. Her hands were an antique chalice cupping the sacrifice of years, of

absence from my homeland. Ireland, your emerald shores almost forgotten in the 40 years since my departure from Cobh Harbor. I felt misty as my gaze returned to the earth she

labored so hard to protect. The memories of days gone by came flooding back in waves of pain and redemption. I want to stop alive forever. If only to watch the ships pass.