St Patty's Day Jokes

To help get you in the Irish mood, here are a couple of jokes.

Sean

Into a Belfast pub comes Paddy Murphy, looking like he'd just been run over by a train, again. 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 shit, 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."

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Three Irishmen, Paddy, Sean and Shamus, were stumbling home from the pub late one night and found themselves on the road which led past the old graveyard. All three drunk as skunks, their curiosity was aroused, so they had a look...
"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'Tool, it says here that he was 95 when he died."

Just then, Shamus yells out, "Good God, here's a fella' that's 145!"

"What was his name?" asks Paddy?

Shamus stumbles around a bit, awkwardly lights a match to see what else is written on the stone marker, and exclaims, "Miles, from Dublin."

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Paddy had been drinking at his local Dublin pub all day and most of the night
celebrating St Patrick's Day. Mick, the bartender says, "You'll not be
drinking anymore tonight Paddy.

Paddy replies, "OK Mick, I'll be on my way then." Paddy spins around on his
stool and steps off. He falls flat on his face.

"Shoite" he says and pulls himself up by the stool and dusts himself off. He
takes a step towards the door and falls flat on his face, Shoite, Shoite!"

He looks to the doorway and thinks to himself that if he can just get to the
door and some fresh air he'll be fine. He belly crawls to the door and
shimmies up to the door frame.

He sticks his head outside and takes a deep breath of fresh air, feels much
better and takes a step out onto the sidewalk and falls flat on his face.
"Bi'Jesus... I'm fockin' focked," he says. He can see his house just a few doors
down, and crawls to the door, hauls himself up the door frame, opens the door
and shimmies inside.

He takes a look up the stairs and says "No fockin' way". He crawls up the
stairs to his bedroom door and says "I can make it to the bed."

He takes a step into the room and falls flat on his face. He says "Fock it"
and falls into bed. The next morning, his wife, Jess, comes into the room
carrying a cup of coffee and says, "Get up Paddy. Did you have a bit to drink last
night?".

Paddy says, "I did Jess. I was fockin' pissed. But how'd you know?"

"Mick phoned, . . . You left your wheelchair at the pub."

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Paddy staggered home very late after an evening with his drinking buddy,
Mick. He took off his shoes to avoid waking his wife, Bridget.

He tiptoed as quietly as he could toward the stairs leading to their upstairs bedroom, but misjudged the bottom step. As he caught himself by grabbing the banister, his body swung around and he landed heavily on his rump. The bottle of "Jameson" in each back pocket broke and made the landing especially painful.

Managing not to yell, Paddy sprung up, pulled down his pants, and looked in the hall mirror to see that his butt cheeks were cut and bleeding. He managed to quietly find a full box of Band-Aids and began putting a Band-Aid as best he could on each place
he saw blood. He then hid the now almost empty Band-Aid box and stumbled his
way to bed.

In the morning, Paddy woke up with searing pain in both his head and rump. Bridget sat staring at him from across the room.

She said, "Paddy McGuire, ye were drunk a gain last night, weren't ye?"

Paddy said, "Why are ye accusin' me of such a thing?"

"Ah, well," Bridget said, "it could be the open front door; it could be the broken glass at the bottom of the stairs; it could be the drops of blood trailing through the house; it could be yer bloodshot eyes; but mostly, I'm thinkin', it's all those Band-Aids stuck to the hall mirror."

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"Mick appeared on the Irish version of "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire" and
towards the end of the program had already won $500,000.

"You've done very well so far," said the show's presenter, but for 1 Million dollars, you've only got one lifeline left, phone-a-friend. "Everything is riding on this question.....will you go for it?"

"Sure," said Mick. I'll have a go!"

"OK. The question is: which of the following birds does NOT build it's own nest?
(a)Robin
(b)Sparrow
(c)Cuckoo
(d)Thrush."

"I hasn't got a clue," said Mick, "So I'll use my last lifeline and phone my friend Paddy back home in Come-Bye- Chance."

Mick called up his mate, told him the circumstances and repeated the question to him.

"Fookin Ell, Mick!" cried Paddy. "Dat's just simple loogic....it's a Cuckoo."

"Are you sure, Paddy?" asked Mick.

"I'm fookin sure" replied Paddy.

Mick hung up the phone and told the TV presenter, "I'll go with cuckoo as my answer."

Is that your final answer?" asked the host.

"Dat it is Sir."

There was a long, long pause, then the presenter screamed, "Cuckoo is the correct answer! Mick, you've won 1,000,000.00!"

The next night, Mick invited Paddy to their local pub to buy him a drink.

"Tell me, Paddy? How in God's name did you know it was the cuckoo that doesn't build its own nest? I mean you know fook-all about birds."

"Fer fooks sake!" laughed Paddy. "Everybody knows a fookin cuckoo lives in a clock!"