Few cultures have as rich of a literary tradition as the Irish (except yours, dear reader). And few literary traditions are as steeped in abject sadness, soul-crushing squalor and pub-related fatalities as that of the Irish autobiography. Yet each year we continue to be enthralled by books from authors that by all accounts should not have lived past birth. So in honor of St. Patrick's Day I present the following template to help you pen your own award-winning Irish memoir. Simply fill in the blanks as instructed and soon you'll have a childhood account that will bring tears to the eyes of Dick Cheney.

I Can't Find Me Legs: A Tale of Growing Up Poor, Catholic and Eventually Blind in Ireland
By (Your name here)
It was day three of the Blessed Feast of the Prolonged Consumption and Father O'Hurley had just finished (gerund) me in the abbey. I put on the coat my dear, defeated mother had fashioned me from discarded (vegetable) and quickly ran back home through the falling (animal)--past the abandoned (town's sole economic lifeline)--only to learn that my (dearest and only childhood possession) had been sold to help pay for the removal of my wee brother's (body part of which there is only one).

Soon afterwards my father stumbled in through the (entrance other than door), reeking of whiskey and (woman's name other than "Mom"). "Damn the cursed English!" he yelled at our pet (inanimate object) before his (gimp extremity) gave out and he crashed face first into the (colorful Gaelic colloquism for "open cutlery drawer").

With my father now dead, it was up to my mother to raise me and my (double-digit number) brothers and sisters, which she did by getting a job in (imagine the worst job possible for a woman, then imagine it occuring inside an underground factory). Unfortunately, a few hours later while walking back from the prostitute cannery she was struck from behind, both sides and above from (oh hell, you decide). She eventually died from (medical term for "the sniffles").

Twenty years later I moved to America.