An Irish man walks into a pub. The bartender asks him, “what’ll you have?”
The man says, “Give me three pints of Guinness please.”
So the bartender brings him three pints and the man proceeds to alternately sip one, then the other, then the third until they’re gone. He then orders three more.
The bartender says, “Sir, I know you like them cold. You don’t have to order three at a time. I can keep an eye on it and when you get low I’ll bring you a fresh cold one.”
The man says, “You don’t understand. I have two brothers, one in Australia and one in the States. We made a vow to each other that every Saturday night we’d still drink together. So right now, my brothers have three Guinness Stouts too, and we’re drinking together.
The bartender thought that was a wonderful tradition.
Every week the man came in and ordered three beers. Then one week he came in and ordered only two. He drank them and then ordered two more.
The bartender said to him, “I know what your tradition is, and I’d just like to say that I’m sorry that one of your brothers died.”
The man said, “Oh, me brothers are fine… I just quit drinking.”
The doctor, after a lengthy examination, sighed and looked Murphy in the eye and said, “I’ve some bad news for you. You have cancer and it can’t be cured. I’d give you two weeks to a month.”
Murphy shocked and saddened by the news, but of solid character, managed to compose himself and walk from the doctor’s office into the waiting room.
There he saw his son who had been waiting. Murphy said, “Son, we Irish celebrate when things are good and celebrate when things don’t go so well. In this case, things aren’t so well. I have cancer and I’ve been given a short time to live. Let’s head for the pub and have a few pints.
After three or four pints the two were feeling a little less somber. There was some laughs and more beers. They were eventually approached by some of Murphy’s old friends who asked what the two were celebrating. Murphy told them that the Irish celebrate the good and the bad. He went on to tell them that they were drinking to his impending end. He told his friends “I’ve only got a few weeks to live as I have been diagnosed with AIDS.”
The friends gave Murphy their condolences and they had a couple more beers.
After his friends left, Murphy’s son leaned over and whispered his confusion. “Dad I thought you said that you were dying from cancer? You just told your friends that you were dying from AIDS?”
Murphy said, “I am dying from cancer son, I just don’t want any of them sleeping with your mother after I’m gone.”
At 4 A.M. the next morning, a dozen British soldiers showed up and dug up the entire garden, but didn’t find any guns. Confused, the man wrote to his son telling him what happened and asking him what to do next.
His son’s reply was: “Just plant your potatoes.”
“Why of course,” comes the reply.
The first man then asks: “Where are you from?”
“I’m from Ireland,” replies the second man.
The first man responds: “You don’t say, I’m from Ireland too! Let’s have another round to Ireland.”
“Of Course,” replies the second man. Curious, the first man then asks: “Where in Ireland are you from?” “Dublin,” comes the reply.
“I can’t believe it,” says the first man. “I’m from Dublin too! Let’s have another drink to Dublin.”
“Of course,” replies the second man. Curiosity again strikes and the first man asks: “What school did you go to?”
“Saint Mary’s,” replies the second man. “I graduated in ’62.”
“This is unbelievable!” the first man says. “I went to Saint Mary’s and I graduated in ’62, too!”
About that time in comes one of the regulars and sits down at the bar. “What’s been going on?” he asks the bartender. “Nothing much,” replies the bartender. “The O’Malley twins are drunk again.”
Everyone expects a fight, but Collins ignores him, so the drunk wanders off and stick his nose into a pint of Guinness at the far end of the bar.
Ten minutes later, the drunk comes back, points at Collins again, and says, “I just screwed your mum, and it was grand!”
Again Collins refuses to take the bait, and the drunk goes back to the far end of the bar.
Ten minutes later, he comes back and announces, “Your mum said it was the best thing since sliced bread!”
Finally Collins interrupts. “Go home, Dad,… you’re pissed!”
A few minutes later, a loud, blood curdling scream is heard coming from the bathroom.
A few minutes later, another loud scream reverberates throughout the bar.
The bartender goes to the bathroom to investigate why the drunk is screaming.
“What’s all the screaming about in there”? “You’re scaring my customers!”
“I’m just sitting here on the toilet and every time I flush something comes up and squeezes the hell out of my balls!”
With that, the bartender opens the door, looks in and says….. “You idiot”
“You’re sitting on the mop bucket!”
“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.”
So the morgue needed someone to identify the body.
His two best friends, Seamus and Sean (also Irishmen), were sent for.
Seamus went in and the Mortician pulled back the sheet.
Seamus said “Yup, he’s burnt pretty bad. Roll him over”.
So the Mortician rolled him over.
Seamus looked and said “Nope, it ain’t Paddy”.
The Mortician thought that was rather strange and then he brought Sean in to identify the body.
Sean took a look at him and said, “Yup, he’s burnt real bad, Roll him over”.
The Mortician rolled him over and Sean looked down and said, “No, it ain’t Paddy”.
The Mortician asked, “How can you tell?”
Sean said, “Well, Paddy had two arseholes.”
“What, He had two arseholes???” said the Mortician.
“Yup, Everyone knew he had two arseholes.
Every time we went into town, Folks would say, “Here comes Paddy with them two arseholes….”
“Shawny ole boy, we’ve been friends all our lives, and now I’m leaving ‘ere. I ‘ave one last request fir ye to do.”
O’Brian burst into tears, “Anything Patrick, anything ye wish. It’s done.”
“Well, under me bed is a box containing a bottle of the finest whiskey in all of Ireland. Bottled the year I was born it was. After I die, and they plant me in the ground, I want you to pour that fine whiskey over me grave so it might soak into me bones and I’ll be able to enjoy it for all eternity.”
O’Brian was overcome by the beauty and in the true Irish spirit of his friend’s request, he asked, “Aye, tis a fine thing you ask of me, and I will pour the whiskey. But, might I strain it through me kidneys first?”