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The Times-Delphic

The Student News Site of Drake University

The Times-Delphic

The Student News Site of Drake University

The Times-Delphic

Commentary: The Spring Break that Wasn’t

Photo Courtesy of Terri Cnudde | Pixabay

Daylight savings time, Pi Day, St. Patrick’s Day, March Madness, apocalyptic weather… what’s not to like about March?

First, the annual “Spring Forward” time change has got everyone milling around like drunken somnambulists, eye bags so dark that the raccoons have taken them as one of their own. Many understandably miss the spring forward memo each year and have to deal with the nightmarish consequences, but think about Doctor Who. That man takes one ride on an elevator, soon he doesn’t know what the hell o’clock it is. And with the time change, he could accidentally miss his show, and, to his horror, find that the time slot had been replaced by Dr. Phil. 

Pi Day was March 14th. Back in 8th grade, I won a Pi Day contest. Memorized one hundred digits or thereabouts. But let’s not stroke my ego, here— it was a fraudulent win. I wrote the digits on the inside of my eyelids. Then again, I can confidently say that I know more pi digits than clean politicians. Which, speaking of unscrupulous politicians, if Joe Biden were to partake in the pi digit memorization challenge, he’d probably end up reciting the digits to “E.” 

So the infamous groundhog Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow this year, which means six more weeks of winter. Last year, though, it was said off the record that Phil had visions of Lucifer and the world going up in a ball of flames. What’s more, nowhere last year in 2020 were four leaf clovers to be found. In fact, the otherwise picturesque rolling hills and breathtaking greens of the midwest countryside were littered with blackened, withering clovers (presumably the survivors of a fiery rainstorm) akin to the landscape in the Fields of Asphodel. The drab, monochromatic weather of this March hasn’t been too much kinder. Rumor has it that a category six Sharknado is looming on the horizon. Fittingly, Ted Cruz will be away on vacay in Ireland.

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The tradition for St. Patrick’s Day is to wear green. So if you’re not Hulk, you’re eligible for a hard pinch. Bad day to be a Smurf, I’ll reckon. Papa Smurf and the gang probably have to paint lamb blood on the frame of their door like in the Book of Exodus just to avoid getting pinched.

Kermit the Frog or not, a pot of gold awaits you on the other end of the rainbow, or so the tale goes. To mimic the objective journalism of The New York Times, I’d presume that Joe Biden’s at the other end of the rainbow. Yes, Joe Biden, the bringer of light, the crusader of truth, Captain Unity in the flesh, sent by Gaia herself, will be found there. 

So you find him, crouched over, shivering, mile-long goatee protruding from his face, like the Bridge Troll in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. He chuckles, his cheekbones moving lethargically like magma: “You really thought here, I mean, there… where? You really thought gold was over here? C’mon man! If you don’t know that, you ain’t Irish! But… um… while I have a friend, and no one loves kids more than me, why not a song? ‘SomeWHERRE over the… the… the… you know… the thing…’”

Of course, Lucky Charms is invariably paired with St. Patrick’s day. You get to the end of the bowl, the milk is all green like Joker’s vat of acid… you think to yourself, “Either this was the doing of a green cow, or Lucky the Leprechaun deceived me with that ‘heart healthy’ tag on the box…”

Which, speaking of “heart healthy,” McDonald’s Shamrock Shake is back for its yearly Alexander the Great campaign. Thing is, I used to down that minty monstrosity like it was water, but as of a few years ago, I’ve vanquished my vice. And a good thing, too— I’m convinced that the seasonal tonic has enough sugar and additives to kill a blue whale. Hell, it’s a better sedative than Propofol. The neurosurgeon could have you down an XL shake five minutes before the brain operation and you’d be out cold, no problem.

To close, March Madness has just begun. No one really knows what the hell they’re doing with these brackets, even if they claim they do. We’re like Candy Land strategists playing chess for the first time. “Sixteen seed against a one? Oh yeah, I like those odds. And hey, while I’m busy with this bracket-majig, you mind moving my queen to that space diagonally across from your little… what is it? Pawn?”

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