One from Aunt Gussie’s Son
Paddy O’Malley, an elderly Irish farmer, received a letter from the Department for Work & Pensions stating they suspected he wasn’t paying his employees the statutory minimum wage.They informed him an inspector would be coming to interview his staff.
On the appointed day, the inspector arrived.
“Tell me about your staff,” he asked Paddy.
“Well,” said Paddy, “there’s the farmhand. I pay him £240 a week, and he gets a free cottage.
Then there’s the housekeeper. She earns £190 a week, along with free board and lodging.
There’s also the half-wit. He works a 16-hour day, does 90% of the work, earns about £25 a week, gets a bottle of whisky, and, as a special treat, occasionally gets to sleep with my wife.”
“That’s disgraceful!” said the inspector. “I need to interview the half-wit immediately.”
“You’re talking to him now,” said Paddy.
The Medicinal Properties of the “Craythur”
Old Murph had taken a glass of Jameson every night for forty years, claiming it was the only thing keeping his gears greased. His wife Mary finally decided she’d had enough of his “medicinal” routine and staged a scientific intervention in the kitchen.
She sat Murph down at the table and produced two shot glasses: one filled with pure spring water and the other with his favorite triple-distilled whiskey. Then, reaching into Murph’s own tackle box, she pulled out two lively earthworms.
“Now Murph, I want you to pay close attention to the science of this,” Mary said sternly. She dropped the first worm into the water. It wriggled about happily, doing a bit of a backstroke. Then, she dropped the second worm into the whiskey. The poor creature gave one violent twitch and shriveled up, stone-dead in seconds.
Mary folded her arms, looking triumphant. “Well then, Murph? What does that tell you about the state of your insides?”
Murph looked at the dead worm, then at his wife, and finally at the glass of gold liquid.
“Well, Mary,” he said with a grin, “it tells me that as long as I keep drinking me whiskey, I’ll never have to worry about worms!”
Easy Mistake
A grandmother was surprised by her seven-year-old helper early one morning. He had made her coffee! She drank what was probably the worst cup of coffee in her entire life. And when she got to the bottom, to her utter amazement, there were three little green, army men in her cup.
Puzzled, she asked, “Honey, what are these army men doing in my coffee?”
Her grandson answered, “Grandma, you know how it says on TV, ‘The best part of waking up is soldiers in your cup.'”
The Pious Pony of County Clare
A fella by the name of Liam had been wandering the bog for two days, soaked to the bone and hopelessly lost in a thick mist. Eventually, he stumbled upon a remote rectory. The local Parish Priest, Father O’Malley, took him in, dried his coat, and fed him enough stew to feed a small army.
The next morning, Liam realized he was miles from the nearest village. “Father,” he said, “could I borrow that horse I see in the paddock? I’ll leave him at the pub in town for you to collect later.”
“You can,” said Father O’Malley, “but you must remember he was raised by the Sisters of Mercy. He only responds to holy words. To make him go, you say ‘Thank God.’ To make him stop, you say ‘Amen.'”
Liam, eager to get moving, nodded quickly. “Right, right. God bless, Father!” He mounted the horse and whispered, “Thank God.” The horse began a gentle walk.
Liam, enjoying the breeze, said, “Thank God, thank God!” and the horse broke into a brisk trot. Feeling a bit bold, Liam shouted, “Thank God! Thank God! Thank God!” The horse took off like a shot, sprinting across the heather.
Suddenly, Liam saw the jagged cliffs of Moher fast approaching! He panicked, pulling the reins and screaming, “Whoa! Stop! Halt, ya beast!”
The horse didn’t stop. Just as they reached the very edge of the precipice, Liam remembered. He squeezed his eyes shut and yelled, “AMEN!”
The horse screeched to a halt, its front hooves just inches from the sheer 700-foot drop. Liam wiped the sweat from his brow, took a deep, shaky breath, and looked up at the beautiful view.
Relieved, he sighed, “Oh, thank God…”
The Clerkship at the Customs House
Two lads were up for a prestigious civil service job in Dublin. One was a sharp-dressed fellow from the big city, and the other was young Paddy, who had just come up on the bus from the wilds of Kerry.
After a grueling interview, the supervisor gave them a written exam on Irish history and law. When the results came back, both men had scored a near-perfect 90%. The supervisor called Paddy into the office.
“Paddy,” he said, “you’re a bright lad, and you know your stuff. But we’ve decided to give the job to the Dub.”
Paddy was fit to be tied. “And why would you do that? We both got the same score! Surely, you’d want a hardworking countryman in the office over a city slicker?”
The supervisor shook his head. “It wasn’t the nine questions you got right, Paddy. It was the one you both missed.”
“And how can one wrong answer be better than another?” Paddy demanded.
“Well,” said the supervisor, “it’s like this. On Question #10, the lad from Dublin wrote down, ‘I haven’t the faintest clue.'”
“And what of it?” Paddy asked.
“You wrote down, ‘Neither do I.'”
The Ultimate Sacrifice
“Siobhan,” said Seamus as he walked through the front door, “I’ve invited young Murty home for his dinner this evening.”
Siobhan dropped her tea towel in a fit. “Are you out of your mind, Seamus? The house is a holy mess, I haven’t been to the shops, the sink is full of dirty dishes, and I’m in no mood to be peeling potatoes for a stranger!”
“I know all that,” Seamus said calmly, hanging up his flat cap.
“Then why in the name of all that’s holy would you invite the poor man over for his supper?”
Seamus sighed and patted her hand. “Because the poor lad is thinking about getting married, and I thought he should see what he’s actually getting into.”
