Sometimes I let my passions get the best of my better judgment. That’s my explanation for how “The Pig Did It” by Joseph Caldwell ended up on my stack of books.

I love Ireland. My family originally emigrated from there ages ago, and I had a wonderful two-week visit to the island in the late 1980s with my older sister. I also love books, especially when I see them on sale like I did just after Christmas when I had to kill time at a Border’s right around the time their precarious financial situation became public knowledge.

So when I saw a $3.99 novel billed as a comedy set in Ireland, I didn’t stand a chance. I really enjoyed getting a good bargain, but now wish I had those four dollars back after slogging through what should have been a crisp and easy 195 pages. Sure, some of the slow go had to do with the fact that my favorite television shows have been running through some epic episodes recently, but the main reason is that the “it” that the pig did really signifies wasting my time.

The book received many notable reviews from what I have found online, but I found it tedious, rambling and far too reliant on a tired Irish stereotype. Maybe there are people in the west of Ireland who speak solely in dramatic monologues using their native Irish tongue, but the whole scenario just seemed way too far fetched. And the “comedy” was more absurdist than comic, but I couldn’t tell whether we were supposed to be amused by the characters or confused. That’s a poor line for a reader to tread.

Despite the overly flowery language, the trite ancient grudges between families and the silly use of the pig to advance a weak story, I soldiered on. We Irish don’t give up our burdens so easily.