An Irishman, Englishman and Scotsman go into a pub and each order a
pint of
>Guinness. Just as the bartender hands them over, three flies buzz down
and
>one lands in each of the pints. The Englishman looks disgusted,
pushes his
>pint away and demands another pint. The Scotsman picks out the fly,
shrugs,
>and takes a long swallow. The Irishman reaches in to the glass,
pinches
the
>fly between his fingers and shakes him while yelling, "Spit it out, ya
little
>bastard! Spit it out!"
>**********************
>Into a Belfast pub comes Paddy Murphy, looking like he'd just been run
over
>by a train. His arm is in a sling, his nose is broken, his face is cut
and
>bruised and he's walking with a limp. What happened to you?" asks
Sean,
the
>bartender. "Jamie O'Conner and me had a fight," says Paddy. "That
little
>sod, O'Conner," says Sean, "He couldn't do that to you, he must have
had
>something in his hand."
>"That he did," says Paddy, "a shovel is what he had, and a terrible
lickin'
>he gave me with it." "Well," says Sean, "you should have defended
yourself.
>Didn't you have something in your hand?" "That I did," said Paddy.
"Mrs.
>O'Conner's breast, and a thing of beauty it was, but useless in a
fight."
>**********************
>Three Irishmen, Paddy, Sean and Seamus, were stumbling home from the
pub
late
>one night and found themselves on the road which led past the old
graveyard.
>"Come have a look over here," says Paddy, "It's Michael O'Grady's
grave,
God
>bless his soul. He lived to the ripe old age of 87." "That's
nothing",
says
>Sean, "here's one named Patrick O'Toole, it says here that he was 95
when
he
>died." Just then, Seamus yells out, "Good God, here's a fella that
got to
be
>145!" "What was his name?" asks Paddy. Seamus stumbles around a bit,
>awkwardly lights a match to see what else is written on the stone
marker,
and
>exclaims, "Miles, from Dublin.
>********************
>An Irishman who had a little too much to drink is driving home from
the
city
>one night and, of course, his car is weaving violently all over the
road. A
>cop pulls him over. "So," says the cop to the driver, "where have ya
been?"
>"Why, I've been to the pub, of course," slurs the drunk. "Well," says
the
>cop, "it looks like you've had quite a few to drink this evening." "I
did
>all right," the drunk says with a smile. "Did you know," says the
cop,
>standing straight and folding his arms across his chest, "that a few
>intersections back, your wife fell out of your car?" "Oh, thank
heavens,"
>sighs the drunk. "For a minute there, I thought I'd gone deaf."
>*********************
>Brenda O'Malley is home making dinner, as usual, when Tim Finnegan
arrives
at
>her door. "Brenda, may I come in?" he asks. "I've somethin' to tell
ya."
>"Of course, you can come in, you're always welcome, Tim. But where's
my
>husband?" "That's what I'm here to be tellin' ya, Brenda. There was
an
>accident down at the Guinness brewery..." "Oh, God no!" cries Brenda.
"Please
>don't tell me..." "I must, Brenda. Your husband Seamus is dead and
gone.
I'm
>sorry." Finally, she looked up at Tim. "How did it happen, Tim?" "It
was
>terrible, Brenda. He fell into a vat of Guinness Stout and drowned."
"Oh,
my
>dear Jesus! But you must tell me true, Tim. Did he at least go
quickly?"
>"Well, no Brenda... no. Fact is, he got out three times to pee."
>
