Like everyone else here, I like to live according to the whims and moral sensibilities of the dead. Countless times I've paused before eating a bun and wondered what St. Gabriel would have to say about its scarcity of raisins. St. Gabriel is the patron saint of communicators (but still the Vatican communicates via smoke signals?!). St. Patrick? I think he hated snakes or something
It's re-hash Wednesday and St Patrick's Day is nigh, meaning that fifth-generation Americans will suddenly announce they've been Irish all this time and go out to Samuel Becket readings or stay in to argue passionately about which among Joyce, Heaney and Yeats provided the world with the most literary description of the potato. See? That was one sentence. It's called brevity, Joyce.