A wee bit o’ the Irish Humour

“The Brothel”

Two Irishmen were sitting at a pub drinking beer and
watching the brothel across the street.
They see a Baptist minister walk into the brothel, and one
of them says, “Aye, ’tis a shame to see a man of the cloth
goin’ bad.”

Then they see a rabbi enter the brothel, and the other
Irishman said, “Aye, ’tis a shame to see that the Jews
are fallin’ victim to temptation as well.”

Then they see a catholic priest enter the brothel, and
one of the Irishmen says, “What a terrible pity …one of
the girls must be dying.”

“Irish Cemetery”

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.”

“Irish Last Request”

Mary Clancy goes up to Father O’Grady after his Sunday
morning service, and she’s in tears.
He says, “So what’s bothering you, Mary my dear?”
She says, “Oh, Father, I’ve got terrible news. Me husband passed away last night.”
The priest says, “Oh, Mary, that’s terrible. Tell me, did he
have any last requests?”
She says, “That he did, Father…”
The priest says, “What did he ask, Mary?”
She says, “He said, “Please Mary, put down that damn gun.”

“Lent”

An Irishman moved into a tiny hamlet in County Kerry.
He walks into the local pub, orders three pints of Guinness takes them to a table and proceeds to drink them taking his time.
He repeats this two times and then leaves the pub.

A few nights later he returns to the pub, orders three pints of Guinness, takes them to a table and drinks them taking his time. He repeats this two times and leaves the pub. He continues this for several weeks.
Soon the entire town is talking about the “Three Pint Man.”

Finally, one day the pub owner on behalf of the entire town broaches the subject to the man. “I don’t mean to pry, but folks are quite curious why you order three pints each time you come in .”

The man replied, “I have two brothers – one in America and one in Australia. When we parted ways we all promised that each time we had a drink, we would order an extra two pints as a way of keeping up with each other.”

The pub owner and the entire town thought this was wonderful and were pleased that the brothers meant so much to each other. “The Three Pint Man” became a celebrity not only to the town but to the surrounding area.

One day the man came into the pub and orders only two pints of Guinness. The pub owner poured them with a heavy heart knowing in his soul that something dreadful must have happened. The news spreads around town and people are offering prays for the “Three Pint Man.”

This went on for a few weeks and the pub owner says to the man, “I want to offer our condolences due to death of your brother. We are all heart broken. You know the two pints and all.”

The man ponders this for a few minutes and replies, “You will be glad to hear that my brothers are alive and well. It’s just that I, meself, have decided to give up Guinness for Lent.”

“Vat O’ Guinness”

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’ rather important to tell ye.”

“Of course you can come in. You’re always welcome here, Tim.” says Brenda. “But where’s me husband, Shamus?”

“That’s what I’m here to be tellin’ ye, Lass. There’s been a simply tragic accident down at the Guinness brewery…”

“Oh, God no!” cries Brenda. “Please don’t tell me…”

“I must, Brenda. Your husband Shamus is gone. I’m dreadfully sorry, Lass.”

Finally, Brenda looks up at Tim and tearfully asks, “Please tell me how it happened, Tim.”

“Aw, Lass, it was terrible. Poor Shamus fell into a vat o’ Guinness Stout and drowned.”

“Oh my Sweet Jesus! But please tell me true, Tim. Did he at least go quickly?”

“Well, no, Lass… not exactly.”

“No?”

“No, fact is, he got out three times to visit the men’s room.”

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, folks!

And a tip o’ the hat to this Lass
For tomorrow is her birthday (39! . . . same age for the past five years!)
Breithlá sona duit!

~m

 

17 thoughts on “A wee bit o’ the Irish Humour

  1. Paddy and Seamus go to the pub and proceed to get piss drunk. After a couple of hours and several pints of Guiness, Seamus loudly announces; “Paddy, watch my pint while I go to the men’s room!”

    After about 10 minutes, a fearsome shriek comes from the men’s room, followed in quick succession by two more screams.

    “By God I’ll kill whoever’s attacking Seamus!” Paddy yells as he heads to the men’s room. Once inside, he finds Seamus sitting and crying.

    “Paddy! I don’t know what I’ve done! Everytime I flush the toilet, it feels like someone’s trying to rip away me nuts!”

    Paddy squints, focuses on the scene before him, and growls; “Seamus, you idiot! You’re sitting on the mop bucket again!”

    The nuts . . . :mrgreen:
    ~m

  2. Seamus and Paddy were having a disagreement.
    Paddy said there were leprechaun nuns, Seamus said their weren’t.
    “I’ll prove it to you” says Seamus.
    He goes to the local convent and asks one of the sisters, who assures him that no, there are no leprechaun nuns.
    He goes and gets Paddy and takes him back with him to the local convent.
    When the same nun answered the door Seamus said “Sister, can you tell my friend Paddy here what you just told me?”
    The sister looks puzzled, but smiles, turns to Paddy and says “Son, there is no such thing as a leprechaun nun”
    Paddy looks worried, scratches his head and says “Are you 100% sure and positive sister? There’s no such thing as a leprechaun nun?”
    The sister smiles again and repeats that no, there’s no such thing as a leprechaun nun.
    Seamus turns to Paddy, hits him on the shoulder and says “See!! I told you it was a penguin you fucked last night!”

    Hope your day is full of the good stuff. Have mentioned that special birthday myself btw :wink:

    Penguins. Ouch. :lol:
    ~m

  3. Seamus is at the pub, it’s last call and he’s piss drunk. The publican says; “Seamus, you need help getting home?”
    “Piss off,” Seamus says. “I’ll walk out under my own steam if it’s of any concern to you.” He gets off his stool, takes a step and falls flat on the floor.
    “Sure you won’t be needin that help?” the publican says with a chuckle.
    “Piss off, it was just a misstep,” Seamus says and drags himself up to the door frame. “I’ll find my own way out if you dinnah mind.”
    True to form, Seamus pushed open the door , takes a step and falls flat on the sidewalk.
    Cursing the publican’s repeated offer of help, Seamus repeats the scene all the way home as he crawls to lampost to fire hydrant to fence to building in futile attempts to stand upright and cast off for that failed step.
    Finally, Seamus makes it to his house and realizes that it might be best to crawl in and up to bed so as not wake his wife Mary. He makes it up to the bed room, crawls next to the bed, undresses and works his way under the covers and passes out.
    The next morning, Mark walks in the bedroom beating a spoon on the porridge pot and yelling, “Seamus you worthless sot! You were out late at the pub again spending my pin money and working yourself into a blind piss drunk!!”
    “No I wasn’t, Mary,”Seamus managed to say through the fog of his hangover. “Wahtever would make you think such a thing?”
    “The publican called!” Mary shouted back. “You left yer wheelchair!”


    hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

    {deep breath}

    hahahahahahahahahahahahaha! (ala Tom Hanks) :mrgreen:
    Good one, buddy. I’ll take some more if you don’t mind . . . ;)
    ~m

  4. This is actually a true story.

    I worked at a weekly newspaper some years ago as a rest tour from daily newspapering, and there was this character there who fancied himself the senior writer and arbiter of all things journalistic.
    He was also quite taken with his Irish heritage, despite the fact that he was three generations removed from being a native Irishman and, if the truth be known, was probably as Irish as Paddy’s pig.
    But year in and year out, this guy lectured us all at great length about how the Irish singlehandedly saved civilization as if they hotfooted it over to Alexandria, Egypt to put out the library fire and haul the contents to archival storage before scaring the Romans back south of the Apennines, interviewing every surviving Greek philosopher and getting back home in time for a big bowl of boiled potatoes. Every St. Paddy’s day, we had to endure the placement of said journalista’s annual “How the Irish Saved Western Civilization” column on top of the rest of the year’s articles on how every aspect of Appalachian culture owed its very existence to Ireland.
    One day, as I was walking though the office spaces, I saw a loose thread on my shirt and muttered absentmindedly, “goddamn Irish pennant.” This was enough to get Mick Light to his feet to upbraid me about cultural unfairness and insensitivity and degrading Irish stereotypes.
    Being somewhat of a cultural mutt myself (Cornish, Welsh, German, possibly Huguenot, and a genetic side trip into African and Cherokee), I simply replied . . . .
    “They don’t call them Welsh pennants, do they?”


    Sounds much like a Greek I worked for years ago. Listening to him talk you’d think the Greeks invented water, for cripe’s sake.

    I’ll raise you one:

    A man wakes up one morning with the filthiest hangover and no recollection of the night before. Slowly opening his eyes, he sees a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water on the bedside table.
    He looks around the room to find his clothes are on the dresser, neatly folded, with a clean shirt on top. The bedroom is immaculate. On the bedside table is a note, which says, ‘Darling, your breakfast is in the kitchen. I love you.’
    Downstairs, he finds his favourite cereal, croissants, fresh OJ and freshly brewed coffee laid out waiting for him, along with the morning paper – and his 15-year-old son, who is finishing his own breakfast.
    ‘Tell me, son,’ he asks, ‘what happened last night?’
    ‘Well, says the boy, ‘you came home so blind drunk you didn’t even know your own name. You nearly broke the door down, then you were sick in the hallway, then you knocked the furniture over and when Mum tried to calm you down, you thought she was the police, so you gave her a black eye.’
    ‘Christ!’ says the man. ‘Then how come my clothes are all folded, the house is tidy and my breakfast is ready?’
    ‘When Mum dragged you into the bedroom and tried to get your trousers off to put you into bed, you shouted at her, ‘Get your filthy hands off me, you whore, I’m married!”
    ~m

  5. Pingback: No, not everyone’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day « Frontier Former Editor

  6. Awwww, the Three Pint Man story brought a tear to my eye.

    I’m Irish Catholic on one side and Irish Protestant on the other, which explains why I’m always so violent, although I am not the least bit conflicted.

    I have a couple of old Dave Allen stories I should post (if the computer will let me; it’s testy lately) and will put them here as well.


    Orange and Green, huh Rain?
    I think the Irish Rovers wrote a song or two about you. ;)
    ~m

  7. Pingback: St. Patrick’s Day Irish Jokes « raincoaster

  8. The Garda had staked out the local pub for drunk drivers, and they watched from their panda car as the drunk tried his keys in everything in sight.

    Finally, he found a nondesciprt Ford and managed to get into the driver’s seat. He whipped out of the crowded parking lot, spraying gravel and Harp cans, and wove off down the narrow streets.

    The Garda pursued him for a few minutes before they turned on their lights, and it was several minutes and a few blips of the siren before he pulled over.

    The officers strolled up to the car and were nonplussed when the window rolled down and the driver, looking thoroughly sober, called out “Sorry, lads–was I spaidin’?”

    “No, sir,” said the senior officer, “But may I ask if you’ve had anything to drink tonight?”

    The man looked startled. “Not a drop, officer,” he said resolutely.

    Alerted, the officer flipped open a notebook while the junior man went to the car for the breathalyser kit.

    “Well then, sir, may I have your name please?”
    “Michael O’Flahrety, sure.”
    “Address?”
    “Number thirty, Ballygosh Road.”
    “Right,” said the policeman, “And may I have your occupation, please?”

    “Well, officer,” replied the man, “I’m a professional decoy.”

    Love it.
    Nothing like tripping up the men in blue. :mrgreen:
    ~m

  9. One word….Awesome.

    My mother-in-law is Irish, likewise the wonderwife and little one have some as well.

    Myself, I have some German, Dutch, bunch of Cherokee Indian and a whole lot of Hillbilly.

    I am so screwed.

    Thanks for the laugh my friend.

    No need for thanks for a laugh.
    Lord knows you give me more than enough back.
    ~m

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