How else did you think leprechauns reproduce? The particulars aren’t important. Right now, you need to get yourself out of this marriage proposal before you have little lucky charms running all over your house. Do you have access to a high-powered meat slicer at all? Damn. What about a kayak? Hell. A panda? Well then, looks like we got some work to do.
Yes, it is a big deal. Have you ever spoken to this leprechaun? Well then how do you know she proposed to you? Oh, okay. That’s actually kind of romantic — if you like Jell-O.
Don’t even tell me you’re considering accepting. I know you’re forty, and I know you haven’t had a date in two years, but c’mon man. A leprechaun? I mean, sure, at least it’s not a centaur or a troll, but have some standards. If you’re into short, pale, red-haired women then I’ll introduce you to my co-worker, Pat. At least she’s human.
Let me explain something to you. You have two choices. One, accept the proposal. Two, refuse the proposal. I can see that you’re leaning toward option one, but let me warn you of something. According to the 1921 Anglo-Irish Treaty, any human, and all descendants of said human, who marries a leprechaun will be permanently ineligible from receiving a pot of gold, should said human or any descendant of said human, ever reach the end of a rainbow. It doesn’t matter how I know that, just be glad I do. Wouldn’t you feel awful if your child found the end of the rainbow? If that’s not enough to deter you, let me say this one word to you: snoring.
In order to guard their treasure while sleeping, leprechauns developed a snoring pattern capable of warding off any intruders. Imagine a steam locomotive rumbling down the tracks carrying a crib of crying babies and a kennel of yapping Chihuahuas, and dragging a chalkboard along the rails. Are we ready to refuse that proposal yet?
Good. She’s gained the upper hand, so you’re going to have to give her something to make up for your refusal. Oh, you think she can’t cause any trouble? She lives in your washing machine. You know what some strategically placed bleach would do to your jeans?
Stop freaking out. Wow, you have a leprechaun living in your washing machine that loves you. Dude, you know Tim? His wife just left him for a land gnome. Things could be worse. I know you said you didn’t have access to a high-powered meat slicer, but can you get your hands on a Zamboni machine? Damn, you’d really be in trouble without me around. All right, time to pull out all the stops.
You have to find her another soul mate. What are you, crazy? I’m happily married. I guess you can ask Tim, but I was thinking more along the lines of another leprechaun. You’ve never kidnapped a leprechaun? Not even in the boy scouts?
The best place to find a leprechaun is at church. Yeah, actually they’re very religious. Next time you go to church, bring a mousetrap, a chunk of provolone cheese, and a vacuum cleaner. Wear a janitor’s shirt and put a bunch of keys on your belt. No one will ask the janitor why he’s bringing a vacuum into church. Find the little mouse hole in the wall, usually it’s near the organ. Put the cheese in the trap and set in near the hole.
No, leprechauns hate cheese. You need to kill the mouse first.
Once the mouse comes out he’ll nibble on the cheese, and well, you know how a mousetrap works. Once that’s done with, turn the vacuum on and stick that long tube attachment into the hole. Wait ten minutes, turn the vacuum off and leave. You might as well take the mouse with you on your way out. After all, you are the janitor.
Once you get home, empty out the vacuum bag. Pick up the leprechaun you just kidnapped. First, make sure he’s male. No, are you crazy? Just ask what its name is. Assuming he’s male, put him inside one of your dirty socks with a clothespin on top. Wash that sock alone. Pray. Get a good night’s rest. Go open up the washing machine and see if your new leprechaun and the female have hit it off. If they’re sitting on the edge of the dryer eating soda bread and watching The Quiet Man then they’ve hit it off.
This plan is practically foolproof, but if some how you manage to screw it up, you have one option left. I didn’t want to mention it earlier because of the danger involved. It’s called the Detroit Divorce Deluxe. And if you thought refusing a marriage proposal was tricky, wait ’til you see what it takes to divorce a leprechaun.
Keep your eye open for a high-powered meat slicer. Just in case.