Happy St. Patrick’s Day

Irish Blessings  (Takes a while to load, but worth it)

Being Irish Means..

• * you will never play professional basketball
•  * you swear very well
•  * at least one of your cousins holds political office
•  * you think you sing very well
•  * you have no idea how to make a long story short
•  * you are very good at playing a lot of very bad golf
•  * there isn’t a huge difference between losing your temper and killing someone
•  * much of your food was boiled
•  * you have never hit your head on the ceiling
•  * you spent a good portion of your childhood kneeling
•  * you’re strangely poetic after a few beers
•  * you’re poetic a lot
•  * you will be punched for no good reason…a lot
• * some punches directed at you are legacies from past generations
•  * your sister will punch you because your brother punched her
•  * many of your sisters are Catherine, Elizabeth or Mary…and one is Mary Catherine Elizabeth
•  * someone in your family is incredibly cheap; it is more than likely you
•  * you don’t know the words but that doesn’t stop you from singing
•  * you can’t wait for the other guy to stop talking so you can start talking
•  * “Irish Stew” is the euphemism for “boiled leftovers from the fridge”
•  * you’re not nearly as funny as you think you are, but what you lack in talent, you make up for in frequency
•  * there wasn’t a huge difference between your last wake and your last kegger party
•  * you are, or know someone, named “Murph”
•  * if you don’t know Murph, then you know “Mac”
•  * if you don’t know Murph or Mac, then you know “Sully”
•  * you’ll probably also know Sully McMurphy
• * you are genetically incapable of keeping a secret
• * your parents were on a first name basis with everyone at the local emergency room and last but not least… Being Irish means…
•  * your attention span is so short that—oh, forget it.

Six retired Irishmen were playing poker in O’Leary’s apartment when Paddy Murphy loses $500 on a single hand, clutches his chest, and drops dead at the table. Showing respect for their fallen brother, the other five continue playing standing up.
Michael O’Conner looks around and asks, “Oh, me boyos, someone’s got to tell Paddy’s wife. Who will it be then?”
They draw straws. Paul Gallagher picks the short one. They tell him to be discreet, be gentle, don’t  make a bad situation any worse.
“Discreet??? I’m the most discreet Irishmen you’ll ever meet. Discretion is me middle name. Leave it to me.”
Gallagher goes over to Murphy’s house and knocks on the door. Mrs. Murphy answers, and asks what he wants. Gallagher declares, “Your husband just lost $500, and is afraid to come home.”
“Tell him to drop dead!”, says Murphy’s wife.
“I’ll go tell him.” says Gallagher.

Walking into the bar, Mike said to Charlie the bartender, ‘Pour me a stiff one – just had another fight with the little woman.’ ‘Oh yeah?’ said Charlie, ‘And how did this one end?’
‘When it was over,’ Mike replied, ‘She came to me on her hands and knees.
‘Really,’ said Charles, ‘Now that’s a switch!   What did she say?’
She said, ‘Come out from under the bed, you little chicken.’

 Into a < ?xml:namespace prefix ="" st1 />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 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.”

An Irish priest is driving down to New York and gets stopped for speeding in Connecticut .   The state trooper smells alcohol on the priest’s breath and then sees an empty wine bottle on the floor of the car.
He says, ‘Sir, have you been drinking?’
‘Just water,’ says the priest.
The trooper says, ‘Then why do I smell wine?’
The priest looks at the bottle and says, ‘Good Lord!  He’s done it again!’

 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.”

Gallagher opened the morning newspaper and was dumbfounded to read in the obituary column that he had died.   He quickly phoned his best friend, Finney.
‘Did you see the paper?’ asked Gallagher. ‘They say I died!!’
‘Yes, I saw it!’ replied Finney.   ‘Where are ye callin’ from?’

  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 telling 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 Shamus 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 Jaysus! But you must tell me true, Tim, did he at least go quickly?”
 “Well, Brenda, no. In fact, he got out three times to pee.”

Paddy was in New York.   He was patiently waiting and watching the traffic cop on a busy street crossing.   The cop stopped the flow of traffic and shouted, ‘Okay, pedestrians.’   Then he’d allow the traffic to pass.
He’d done this several times, and Paddy still stood on the sidewalk.
After the cop had shouted, ‘Pedestrians!’ for the tenth time, Paddy went over to him and said, ‘Is it not about time ye let the Catholics across?’

  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. My husband passed away last night.”
 The priest says, “Oh, Mary, that’s terrible. Tell me, Mary, 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, for the love of god, put down that damn gun…’ “

Father Murphy walks into a pub in Donegal, and says to the first man he meets, ‘Do you want to go to heaven?’
The man said, ‘I do, Father.’
The priest said, ‘Then stand over there against the wall.’
Then the priest asked the second man, ‘Do you want to go to heaven?’
‘Certainly, Father,’ was the man’s reply.
‘Then stand over there against the wall,’ said the priest.
Then Father Murphy walked up to O’Toole and said, ‘Do you want to go to heaven?’
O’Toole said, ‘No, I don’t Father.’
The priest said, ‘I don’t believe this.   You mean to tell me that when you die you don’t want to go to heaven?’
O’Toole said, ‘Oh, when I die, yes.   I thought you were getting a group together to go right now.’

Paddy was driving down the street in a sweat because he had an important meeting and couldn’t find a parking place.   Looking up to heaven he said, ‘Lord take pity on me.   If you find me a parking place I will go to Mass every Sunday for the rest of me life and give up me Irish Whiskey!’
Miraculously, a parking place appeared.
Paddy looked up again and said, ‘Never mind, I found one.’