This could be taken as a challenge! I'm sure many potential commenters out there could put forward their own candidates.
But, in honour of the imminent St Patrick's Day, here is one of my favourites.....
An Irishman is marooned on a tiny desert island.
As he walks disconsolately around and around his tropical prison, he happens on a small, exotically-coloured bottle half-buried in the sand.
The Irishman picks it up and examines it, removes the cork - and, YES, out puffs a Genie!
"Thank you for releasing me, Paddy," says the Genie, with something less than the deference that is customary with his kind. "In accordance with tradition, I must now grant you three magical wishes. You may have whatever your heart desires."
"What - anything?" boggles the Irishman.
"Yes, anything," repeats the Genie patiently.
"Well," says the Irishman (who is desperately parched, after spending a couple of days on the island without attempting to find water),"I could murder a Guinness!"
"Your wish be granted," says the Genie. And out of thin air there appears in the Irishman's hand a perfectly-poured, ice-cold pint of the black stuff.
The Irishman eagerly glugs it down, and smacks his lips in appreciation.
He is about to toss the empty glass into the ocean.... when he notices that it is suddenly full again with another creamy-headed, velvety smooth pint of the black beer.
"Saints preserve us!" he cries. "What's going on here?"
"It is a magical beer glass," explains the Genie. "It will always be full again one second after you empty it."
"Ah, man, yer havin' me on!"
"No, really, the glass will always fill itself with Guinness again."
"What - really?"
"Yes."
"Sure, that's a marvellous thing! I never seen the like."
"Well, that's what we call 'magic'," says the Genie modestly. "Now, what would you like for your other two wishes?"
"I'll have two more of these!" shouts the Irishman delightedly.
37 comments:
OK, given that I am "celebrating" Paddy's Day in Chicago as of tomorrow, I thought I would add one.
Paddy is sat at the bar drinking a pint of Guiness. Other end of the bar are two drunk Englishmen, pointing at him, laughing away.
One Englishman puts a twenty on the bar in front of his freind, and says "Bet you this twenty I can walk down the other end of the bar and piss off Paddy down there."
Second Englishman accepts the bet, and first Englishman staggers down the bar, and looks Paddy in the eye...
"Hey Paddy," says he,"you know St. Patrick?"
Paddy looks back at him, and replies, "Aye, I know him."
First Englishman slurs, "He was a pedophile... liked little boys, didn't he."
Paddy looks back at him, sips his Guiness, and says calmly, "Was he know? You learn something new every day."
First Englishman goes back to his friend, and shrugs his shoulders. Second Englishman puts a second twenty down, and says, "Tell you what, double or quits, I bet I can piss Paddy off."
Second Englishman walks down the bar, pokes Paddy, and says, "Hey Paddy, you know St. Patrick?"
Paddy looks up and replies "Aye, I know him."
Second Englishman says, "St. Patrick was an Englishman."
Paddy takes a sip of beer, and replies, "Aye, I know. Your friend just told me."
Ah, inversion of the usual logic - politically correct un-PC-ness. Love it!
And using the -ophile word on my blog, even in the comments section, will probably increase my number of hits a thousand-fold.
Hello, nonces of the world - you're in the wrong place.
An Irishman, an Englishman, and a Scotsman were having a pint together. It could happen. It also happened that a fly landed in the Englishman's drink. He signaled the bartender for a fresh pint. Another fly landed in the Irishman's drink. He picked the fly out and resumed drinking. Yet another fly (where the hell were they drinking? Australia?) landed in the Scotsman's drink. He picked up and tried choking it. He yelled, "Spit it out! Spit it out, ye Basterrd!"
Thanks, Georg, but I don't think it really counts as "an Irish joke" unless the Irishman is the butt of it.
Has the traditional Irish joke really been drowned by the tide of PC-ness in the States?? I can't believe it! Not if it's still possible to make fun of Scots thriftiness....
I think they have pretty much been stamped out these days. No one cares if your Irish unless it's in the middle of March. It's vastly different from the days where you would see job postings that would blatantly state "No Irish."
I have read an Irish jokebook, but it's been a while. Now blonde jokes, on the other hand...
An Irishman and an American were sitting in the bar at Shannon
Airport.
"I've come to meet my brother," said the Irishman. "He's due to fly in
from
America in an hour's time. It's his first trip home in 40 years".
"Will you be able to recognize him?" asked the American.
"I'm sure I won't," said the Irishman, "after all, he's been away for a
long
time".
"I wonder if he'll recognize you?" said the American.
"Of course he will," said the Irishman. "Sure, an' I haven't been away
at
all".
Well, I had been wary of recording this joke on the Net, but.... here goes! It's not an Irish joke, but what the hey. It's the one I mentioned in my post a few weeks back about my favourite pub from my lawyering days: http://thebarprop.blogspot.com/2007/02/seven-stars.html
A man comes home from a hard day at the office, looking forward to the possibility of a little hanky-panky with his cute girlfriend.
Unfortunately, he finds the girl in a furious temper, careering around the house like the cartoon Tasmanian Devil (Warner Bros. TM), rifling through drawers, dashing up and down the stairs, packing a suitcase ready to leave.
He tries to engage her in conversation, get her to calm down, find out what's wrong.
"Darling, honey, what's all this about? What on earth are you doing?"
She ignores him and continues her furious packing.
He patiently tries again. "Please, honey. Tell me what's wrong."
"Oh, leave me alone. Get away from me! I never want to see you again."
"Sweetie, please calm down. Tell me what's bothering you. I'm sure we can work it out."
"Get out of my way. I can't bear to talk to you."
"Honey, honey, please, what is it? Is is something I've said, something I've done. Aren't I making you happy? Is it our sex life?? I thought that was going pretty well... last weekend, the best ever...."
"Leave me alone. You're a beast. I'm going back to mother."
"Honey, honey, please don't do this. You can't just walk out without even telling me why."
"All right then. I KNOW. I found out your dirty little secret."
"Darling, what do you mean? I don't have any secrets - from you."
"I know now. One of your friends told me about you. He told me you're...a PAEDOPHILE!"
The man is momentarily taken aback; then he tries to reason with her again: "Honey, really... Paedophile?! That's A VERY BIG WORD for a 10-yr-old, isn't it?"
Ha! I love that joke. I figure that since the Cowboy has already used the word 'paedophile' in this comment-string, I can't get myself in any MORE trouble. This joke is particularly associated for me with my unjust defeat in a mooting competition 10 years ago; as I recounted in that post on the 'Seven Stars' pub, it became a kind of consolation: to this day, I can't hear the legal terms "equitable" and "subrogation", separately or together, without thinking "That's a very BIG word" and cracking up.
My lovely friend Di, the "Mooting Partner" with whom I shared this moment, occasionally slips the phrase into conversation, just to enjoy seeing me squirt beer out of my nose.
Not exactly an Irish joke, but close enough.
Sell-out U2 gig, Hampden Park, Summer 2005. Bono gets on his high horse (again) with a lengthy political speech that we should "Make Poverty History" (don't get me wrong, I'm all for it, but maybe if these rich, famous types dug a little deeper...especially considering the astronomical price of the gig tickets, CDs, merchandise, etc, etc, that keeps them in a life of luxury). Anyway, I digress...
Bono is ranting and raving, then starts clapping his hands every 3 seconds. He shouts to the audience, "Every time... (CLAP) ... I clap my hands ...(CLAP) ... someone in Africa ... (CLAP) ... dies. (CLAP) ... Make Poverty ... (CLAP) ... History...".
Someone in the audience shouts, "Well, stop f*cking clappin' then".
Just to remind you all what we're REALLY supposed to be collecting here... another CLASSIC I've just been reminded of.
Seamus comes round to call on Brenda Malone, his best friend's wife.
She can tell from his long face that he's got some bad news.
"Oh good lord, Seamus, whatever is it? Please don't tell me something's happened to my Paddy."
"Brenda, I can't lie to you. It's very bad news. There was an accident at the brewery this afternoon. I'm afraid Paddy's left us."
Some minutes of hysterical weeping and wailing ensue. Then, when the poor woman has collected herself a little, she asks,"Tell me, Seamus, however did it happen?"
"Well," says Seamus, "he fell into one of the vats of Guinness and was drowned."
"Oh my God, terrible, terrible!" muttered the widow. "But please, at least tell me that it was all over quickly."
Seamus shuffles his feet awkwardly. "Well, no, Brenda, I'm afraid it wasn't. It took quite some time. As a matter of fact, he got out three times to have a pee."
Late St Paddy's Day Joke:
A man goes into a pub in an isolated part of Ireland. The place is full of regulars, but they make him welcome and he sits down at the bar.
He's been
sitting there a little while, and someone says '365', and everybody bursts out laughing. The man is mystified, but says nothing. Anyway, a few minutes later, the same thing happens again: someone says '129', and all the locals
start roaring with laughter.
After it's happened a couple more times, the man can't take it any more, and asks the barman what it's all about. 'Oh, it's perfectly simple, really' he said. 'Round here, we don't get to hear any new jokes, and we all know the same ones, so to make life a bit easier, we just numbered them, so that we don't have to keep on telling them over and over again.'
The man can see the point behind this, but it's really quite unnerving to have everybody around him laughing without knowing what's going on. Anyway, in the interests of being polite, he decides to enter
into the spirit of things, so he shouts out '621', and the pub descends into uproar as every single person in there starts laughing hysterically and rolling on the floor with tears in their eyes.
Even more mystified, the man turns to the barman again, and says 'Well, what's that joke, then? It seemed to go down
pretty well' The barman wiped the tears from his eyes and says 'Ah, that's because they've not heard that one before'.
It's the way I tell 'em...
Nice one, Ali.
I just transferred that over here, because you'd left it on the wrong post originally!
I'm pretty sure I first heard that one as one of Ronnie Corbett's 'Big Chair' jokes. He, of course, took MUCH LONGER to tell it.
An young Irish whippersnapper goes into the confession box:
Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I have been with a loose woman."
The priest asks, "Is that you, little Tommy Shaughnessy?"
"Yes, Father, it is."
"And, who was the woman you were with?"
"I can't be tellin' you, Father. I don't want to ruin her reputation."
"Well, Tommy, I'm sure to find out sooner or later, so you may as well tell me now. "
"Was it Brenda O'Malley?"
"I cannot say."
"Was it Patricia Kelly?"
"I'll never tell."
"Was it Liz Shannon?"
"I'm sorry, but I can't name her."
"Was it Cathy Morgan?"
"My lips are sealed."
"Was it Fiona McDonald, then?"
"Please, Father, I cannot tell you."
The priest sighs in frustration. "You're a steadfast lad, Tommy Shaughnessy,and I admire that. But you've sinned, and you must atone.
You cannot attend church mass for three months. Be off with you now."
Tommy walks back to his pew. His friend Sean slides over and whispers,
"What'd you get?"
"Three month's holiday and five good leads"
A classic which made me cry so much I was thrown out of Art in 1977:
Two Irishmen go to a drive-in movie; they don't like the film so they slash the seats.
Two Irishmen sat next to the other in a bar.
Seamus turns to Patrick and introduces himself.
Patrick asks, "Where are you from, Seamus?"
"I'm from County Limerick, Patrick."
"Well isn't that a coincidence, Seamus, I'm from County Limerick too. What town do you hail from?"
"I'm from Bunratty, Patrick, it's a wee little town."
"Get away, Seamus, I'm from Bunratty too! Where did you go to school?"
"I went to St. Theresa's, Patrick."
"Well it's a small world, Seamus, I went to St. Theresa's too. Next you'll be telling me you grew up on Hangar Lane..."
"You won't believe it Patrick, I did grow up on Hangar Lane..."
Behind the bar, one bar maid turns to the other.
"Jesus Christ, the McGlinchy twins are in again."
Sean had been drinking at his local pub all day and most of the night. Mick, the bartender says "You'll not be drinking anymore tonight, Sean". Sean replies "OK Mick, I'll be on my way then." Sean spins around on his stool and steps off. He falls flat on his face. "Shit" 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. He looks to the doorway and thinks to himself that if he can just get to the door and get some fresh air he'll be fine. He belly crawls to the door and shimmies up the door jamb. He sticks his head outside and takes a deep breath of fresh air. He feels much better and takes a step out onto the sidewalk. He falls flat on his face. "I'm fookin locked" he says. He can see his house just a few doors down, and crawls to the door and shimmies up the door jamb, opens the door and shimmies inside. He takes a look up the stairs and says "No fookin 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 "Fook it" and crawls into bed.
The next morning, his wife, Mary, comes into the room carrying a cup of coffee and says "Get up Sean. Did you have a bit to drink last night?" Sean says "I did Mary. I was fookin locked. But how'd you know?" She answered "Mick called. You left your wheelchair at the pub."
OK, not an Irish joke - but I'm no longer insisting on that theme.
This another oldie-but-goodie, another of Ronnie Corbett's classic 'Big Chair' jokes.
I happened to mention the punchline in a post on Froogville
earlier today, so I thought I'd better provide the joke to go with it.
***************************
Two men are playing a round of golf. They've never met before, having only just been introduced to each other by a mutual friend at the golf club.
The first man has a very large, rather old-fashioned-looking golf bag, which appears to be very heavy, and is clanking a lot when he moves it.
At the first tee, instead of a driver, he pulls an old hockey stick out of the bag, and hits his ball with that. His opponent thinks this is a bit out of order, but politely holds his tongue - since it can't possibly be of any advantage to use such an inappropriate instrument. To his surprise, the first player hits the ball hard and true, and it flies a good distance straight down the middle of the fairway.
After two 'iron shots', which he plays with odd pieces of metal piping, he is on the green. He then takes a broom handle out of his golf bag, and proceeds to sink his 10ft putt with it.
The second man, struggling to make a double-bogey, shakes his head in disbelief.
The game proceeds in similar fashion through the morning. The first player nearly manages to break par, using a motley collection of pieces of scrap wood and metal for clubs. The second player, completely nonplussed by the uncanny ability of his opponent, drops shots left and right.
Later, as they share a drink in The 19th Hole, the second golfer ventures to ask: "Excuse me, old chap. I didn't want to interrogate you about this while we were playing, but you have to admit, it is dashed odd - playing with all those odds and ends instead of proper clubs. Would you mind telling me why you do it?"
"Not at all," his new friend replied graciously. "It's something of a curse I have, you see. I seem to be naturally gifted at everything I turn my hand to. Whatever it is, it comes to me easily - and I just get bored with it, unless I can find some way to make it more challenging, to make it as difficult as possible for myself."
"My god! Really?" said his companion. "Everything?"
"Yes, everything," sighed the phenomenal golfer. "And I know what's on your mind. Everyone asks. And the answer is: standing up, in a hammock."
Paddy is selected to appear on "Who wants to be a millionaire?"
He gets through the first question easily enough, banking 100 pounds.
So it's onto question two.
"Which one of the following people," asks Chris Tarrant gravely, "fled to Brazil following the notorious Great Train Robbery? Was it a) Ronnie Biggs, b) Ronnie Barker, c) Ronnie Parker, or d) Ronnie Scott?"
Paddy thinks a while, before finally saying: "Well now Mr Tarrant, I've had a grand time and to be sure I've enjoyed myself. But I think I'll just be taking my 100 quid and heading off home now: that's me done. Thanking you very much."
"Are you mad?" asks Tarrant indignantly. "You've not even asked the audience or phoned a friend yet: you've got all your lifelines left!"
Drawing upon all his reserves of dignity, Paddy says stiffly. "I may be stupid Mr Tarrant. But I'm no grass."
A couple are out on a date to a Chinese restaurant. They decide to order the 'Chicken Surprise', so the waiter brings over a big ceramic pot with a lid and places it on the table.
A few minutes later, as they're billing and cooing at each other, they notice that the lid of the pot is slowly rising of its own accord. They look closer, and to their horror see a beak sticking out & a pair of beady eyes staring back at them just before the lid slams back down.
This happens again... and again. Finally the bloke calls the waiter over- 'What's going on? We ordered the Chicken Surprise.'
The waiter looks at his pad and says, 'Very sorry- I thought you ordered the Peking Duck...'
George Bush is at a press conference, and Cheney announces, 'Yesterday, 3 Brazilian soldiers were killed in Iraq.'
Bush slumps forward with his head in his hands, weeping copiously & moaning, 'What a terrible waste!'.
Everyone's a bit puzzled about this, and stands in embarrassed silence, until Bush raises his head and says, 'Remind me guys, how many's in a brazillion?'...
Are there in fact any Brazilians serving in Iraq?? This joke was originally told about that poor guy who was mistakenly shot on the London Underground a couple of years back.
Thanks for sharing, Bookseller. I'm sure you've got many more up your sleeve. I was always impressed by the way you would be the first to disseminate the 'bad taste' classics that always appear in the wake of some horrible disaster.
Do you know the one about the Irish punk who got given some cufflinks for Christmas?
He went and got his wrists pierced.
You know how some girls will just think it's cool to date someone of a rare ethnicity....?
There was a girl at Corpus (in the early 90s, when we were hanging around teaching) who was seeing this Gurkha - a squaddie, of course. He could barely speak English and was still struggling with the training on how to use the sit-down toilet, etc. When he was posted overseas, she decided to give him as a leaving present......
Oh, the naivety! The wrist-piercing joke was HUGE in the Corpus Beer Cellar for about a month.
1. Q:How can you spot Paddy on the oil rig?
A: He's the one throwing bread to the helicopters.
2. Q: What does it say on the bottom of Irish milk bottles?
A: Open other end.
3. Have you heard the one about the Irish wolfhound sitting in front of the fire gnawing a bone? It got up and fell over.
4. Paddy goes to London and is given the address of a good brothel there by his mate. One night he has a Guinness too many and decides to pay the 'house' a visit. Problem is that in his drunken stupidity he mixes up the address and goes into the Chiropodist's next door. A woman in a white starched coat walks in and Paddy assumes that it's the kinky stuff. "Right" she says "Lets have it up on the table". Paddy undoes his flies and obliges. The horrified Chiropodist looks at his todger and shrieks "That's not a foot!" to which Paddy replies "and sure, but it's at least nine inches".
Boom Boom
A: "It can't - it's got no nose..."
(I'll leave you to explain that one to your Septic Tanks muckers, Froog)
Mein Hund....
That's the puppy!
A recent international survey attempted to find out what different nationalities thought that the bulge on the end of the male member was for.
70% of Frenchmen thought that it was for the woman's pleasure.
80% of Englishmen thought that it was for the man's pleasure.
99% of Irishmen thought that it was to stop your hand from slipping off :-)
Not really on the Irish theme, but.... I have thrown this thread open to wince-making jokes of all varieties.
I happened to make a reference to this in passing over on Froogville the other day, so I thought I'd better provide an explanation.
********************
Jesus is on the cross. His favourite disciple, Peter, is watching helplessly from the crowd. Feeling ashamed and guilty about the "denying me thrice before cock crow" thing, he's trying to edge his way closer to the front of the throng, so that he might perhaps be able to exchange a few last words with his master.
Then, he thinks he hears Jesus' voice coming to him faintly on the breeze, calling his name; "Peter, Peter..."
Peter is galvanized into action. He starts shoving his way to the front. "It's me, Lord. I'm here. I'm coming." Of course, he annoys the other gawpers around him, and a big guy elbows him in the throat as he tries to push past. Peter collapses like a sack of spuds, and writhes around in the dust for a few minutes trying to catch his breath.
Jesus has gone quiet again, perhaps having lost consciousness. Disappointedly, Peter picks himself up and starts to retreat towards the rear of the crowd again.
But just then, he hears the call again: "Peter, Peter..."
"Yes, Lord! I'm coming!" Once again, he starts making his way through the crowd. He's a little more circumspect this time, and eventually manages to get to the front. Of course, there's a rope cordon, and a bunch of Roman legionaries holding people back. As soon as he ducks under the rope, one of the legionaries runs over to him and gives him a mighty clout on the head with the shaft of his spear. Dazed and bleeding, Peter crawls back into the crowd for refuge.
He's about to go home to bandage his throbbing head when he once more hears Jesus - fainter and feebler than ever - calling his name. So, he tries once more to reach his master. But once again, when he tries to sneak past the Roman guards, he is spotted and seized. The centurion in charge comes over to see what the fuss is about. "You again, huh? Get out of here if you know what's good for you!" And he knees him savagely in the nuts. Once more Peter crawls back into the crowd to recover.
By the time he's able to walk upright again, it's getting late in the day, and Jesus hasn't spoken again in quite some time. Sadly, Peter decides to give up and go home. But he's only gone a few yards down the hill when he hears that familiar voice again straining to reach him: "Peter, Peter....."
Ashamed at his desertion, Peter determines to make one last effort to get to the cross to speak with Jesus. The crowd is thinning out by this point, and the Roman soldiers are getting weary, becoming less attentive. He approaches stealthily, up a small ravine on the far side of hill; crouching low, scurrying from one ragged bush to another, doing his best to keep under cover. It takes him 20 minutes, but this time he's done it: he's escaped the notice of the guards, and managed to get right up to the foot of the cross.
Jesus is still, silent. Peter fears it's too late, and begins to weep bitterly. But then..... Jesus opens his eyes one last time, his lips part, and once again, weak but quite distinct, his voice emerges: "Peter, Peter...."
Peter can hardly believe it. Now he's crying with joy. "Yes, Lord. I'm here. Speak to me."
"Peter, Peter....."
"Yes, Lord. It's me, your Peter. I'm right here beside you. What do you want to say to me?"
No answer. Then, very faintly, once more: "Peter, Peter...."
Peter is beside himself. Perhaps Jesus can't hear him, or doesn't recognise him. Peter stands up tall, hugs the cross, kisses his dying master's feet. He looks up towards Jesus face, and shouts: "Yes, Lord, I'm here. It's Peter. What would you say to me?"
"Peter, Peter....... I can see your house from up here."
Oh, I thought he said "What a way to spend Easter!"
Here's a very short one: it only works in French, but you can always phone a francophone.
Pretty young girl in the confessional:
"J'ai péché, mon père"
Deaf priest:
"Parle haut!"
Girl:
"Non, mon père, par le bas"
Gosh, new visitors!
Thanks for stopping by.
Where did you guys come from?
(We may have to start a new thread for naught jokes in French/)
Why don't you click on my name and go to my website, where I tell you exactly where I am from?
Don't know about this Frand Guy, though. His website suggests that he is English but few Englishmen know that story. It's been well received by my neighbours though.
Sorry, I made a mistake. I should have put this.
I was thinking more of cyber-origins than geographical ones, Julius.
Where did you find a link to this site?
Aha! I deduce that both Goswell and Julius are acolytes of the estimable Tony, my newest blog-friend.
I don't do acolytes, but I am not entirely unacquainted with these rather louche characters. Don't tell anyone though, I am not proud of it.
The Lone Ranger has been captured by hostile Indians, and they plan to revenge themselves for all the racial steretyping they've suffered down the years by inflicting on him a slow, painful death. They've got him buried up to his neck in the sand, and are discussing what to do next. One of their number - who's evidently been a little corrupted by too much exposure to the White Man's 'culture' - suddenly suggests that they give him a LAST REQUEST.
The other Indians are intrigued by this novel idea, and decide to go ahead with it.
They tell The Lone Ranger, and he nods, thinks for a moment, and then does his secret special whistle out of the side of his mouth. A few minutes later, as if by magic, his faithful horse Silver gallops in out of the desert. Silver then walks slowly up to The Ranger and bows down his long neck so that his head is right next to his master's. The Lone Ranger quickly whispers something in his loyal steed's ear. The horse nods gravely, and then straightens up and gallops away. The Indians look at each other, intrigued and baffled.
A few hours later, Silver reappears, carrying on his back Miss Cecily, the prettiest whore from the nearest town. The lady dismounts, and walks over to the Lone Ranger. Since there isn't much else she can do for him, buried in the ground as he is, she squats down over his face so that he can perform cunnilingus on her. He does so for several minutes, and they both seem to enjoy it rather a lot. But Miss Cecily has another appointment back at the brothel, and sadly bids The Lone Ranger farewell. She climbs back on to Silver's saddle and rides away.
The Indians are so impressed by this performance that they decide to give The Lone Ranger another FINAL REQUEST - to see what he'll come up with this time.
The Lone Ranger nods, and once again gives his secret whistle. Eventually Silver returns, and once more walks up to the buried hero, bends his head down low and offers his ear to his master's mouth. And The Lone Ranger hisses, "I said, "Fetch me A POSSE!"
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