If you had peeked into her room, you would have seen a frail, sick woman. That isn't what I saw.
All tagged Ireland
If you had peeked into her room, you would have seen a frail, sick woman. That isn't what I saw.
As we set out toward Normandy, the teacher stood in the front of the French tour bus and reminded the boys of D-Day in June of 1944. We passed German bunkers. We stopped at Utah Beach. And Omaha.
Then we went to the American cemetery.
I stared in stunned silence as New York City firefighters, police officers and rescue workers charged into burning skyscrapers to rescue strangers from certain death. I watched them drag corporate executives and janitors and people of all nationalities to safety.
For years, I've been offering assorted explanations for why I spent three years in Dublin during the early 1980s: To cover a war without going to the Middle East. To avoid appearing in public in a bathing suit. To cure a case of unsightly hand warts. To date guys with Irish accents.
The list changes but almost always contains a kernel of truth.
It’s St. Patrick’s Day and I feel it’s my duty to once again remind everyone that corned beef and cabbage isn’t remotely Irish. No one in Ireland eats that slop.
The government should keep its paws and laws off of adults who want to vape.
Naturally the open borders crew is collectively losing its mind over the notion that those who come here on temporary visas ought to not go on welfare for the rest of their lives.