Pucker up, Vander Prude

Last week’s issue was completely and utterly, positively and without a doubt a pointless waste of ink and paper (“God and Gays,” March 20). On the cover, the subhead reads: “Why Bob Vander Plaats and his merry men may soon be irrelevant.” It begs the obvious question: When were they ever relevant? Not in this century. If Bob weren’t such a prude, I’d kiss him.

Threats from a territorial ‘leprechaun’

Saint Patrick’s Day far misses the mark when it comes to celebrating Irish heritage (“The Fighting Irish,” March 13). I should know. I play one on Sundays. I’m a member of the Iowa Historical Live Re-enactors Club. (We’re not talking cheesy Ren Faire foibles, used by women as a keen excuse to tighten their corsets and pretend to be both thin-wasted and busty — a naturally biological impossibility — and men who can’t even hit a nail with a hammer peacock around like greasy blacksmiths, or fulfill pitiful boyish “knight in shining armor” fantasies by dressing in freshly-polished soup cans and perching on a high horse they had to use a step ladder to mount.) This club is comprised of real men and women, and we don’t run around like slurring sots from pub to pub with Guiness spilt down our bowties. We’re the real deal.

My character is the actual Irish leprechaun — the star of the whole event, if you ask me. I guard the pot of gold, while hidden beneath a magical rainbow of color and light. Though no one ever finds me. People try to “follow” the rainbow to find the end, but the futility of their mission ever eludes them — the fools. It’s like ring-toss at a carnival, and I’m the bloody carney guarding all the cheaply-made oversized bean-stuffed animals hanging by their necks on the wall. You see, the house always wins, and this wee leprechaun will kick you in your shins and choke you with his green spandex tights before he gives up a single gold coin.

So, get it straight, Des Moines. There’s more to the Irish than green beer, methinks. And, by the way, corned beef is a little too chewy for my liking. Ain’t got time for that!