By Dennis McLaughlin

With St. Patrick’s Day only four days away, I thought some Irish jokes are in order.

Murphy was doing some brickwork on the fireplace in Mr. Cabot’s expensive home. He was much impressed by the moosehead over the fireplace.

“’Tis a beautiful animal, Mr. Cabot, bigger even than the great Irish Deer, Oi’m thinkin’.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Cabot, “that moose was a fighter among moose. I tracked him for over two days and when I finally shot him it took six men to load him in the jeep.”

Shaking his reddish curls in admiration, Murphy said, “Truly, ‘tis a great hunter you are, Sir, and a great animal that is. Do you mind if Oi go into the next room and see the rest of him?”

• • •

Did you hear about the Irishman who was tap dancing? He broke his ankle when he fell into the sink.

• • •

Sean was fishing and it started to rain, so he moved under the bridge for shelter. His pal McGinty saw him and called, “Sean, me boy, are ye afeared of a few spots o’ rain, now?” Sean replied, “I’m not … the fish come here fer shelter.”

• • •

“Well, Mrs. O’Connor, so you want a divorce?” the solicitor questioned his client. “Tell me about it. Do you have a grudge?”

“Oh, no,” replied Mrs. O’Connor. “Shure now, we have a carport.”

The solicitor tried again. “Well, does the man beat you up?”

“No, no,” said Mrs. O’Connor, looking puzzled. “Oi’m always first out of bed.”

Still hopeful, the solicitor tried once again. “Well, does he go in for unnatural connubial practices?”

“Shure now, he plays the flute, but I don’t think he knows anything about the connubial.”

Now desperate, the solicitor pushed on. “What I’m trying to find out are what grounds you have.”

“Bless ye, sor. We live in a flat — not even a window box, let alone grounds.”

“Mrs. O’Connor,” the solicitor said in considerable exasperation, “you need a reason that the court can consider. What is the reason for you seeking this divorce?”

“Ah, well now,” said the lady, “Shure it’s because the man can’t hold an intelligent conversation.”

• • •

How do you sink an Irish submarine? Knock on the hatch.

• • •

Paddy was trapped in a bog and seemed a goner when Big Mick O’Reilly wandered by. “Help!” Paddy shouted, “Oi’m sinkin’!”

“Don’t worry,” assured Mick. “Next to the Strong Muldoon, Oi’m the strongest man in Erin, and Oi’ll pull ye right out o’ there.”

Mick leaned out and grabbed Paddy’s hand and pulled and pulled to no avail. After two more unsuccessful attempts, Mick said to Paddy, “Shure, an’ Oi can’t do it. The Strong Muldoon could do it alone, mebbe, but Oi’ll have to get some help.”

As Mick was leaving, Paddy called “Mick! Mick! D’ye think it will help if Oi pull me feet out of the stirrups?

• • •

Two Irish lads had been out shacking up with their girlfriends. One felt guilty and decided he should stop at the church and confess. He went into the confession booth and told the Father, “Father, I have sinned. I have committed fornication with a lady. Please forgive me.”

The Father said, “Tell me who the lady was.” The lad said he couldn’t do that and the Father said he couldn’t grant him forgiveness unless he did.

“Was it Mollie O’Grady?” asked the Father.” “No.” “Was it Rosie Kelly?” “No.” “Was it that redheaded wench Tessie O’Malley?” “No.” “Well then,” said the Father, “You’ll not be forgiven.”

When the lad met his friend outside the friend asked, “So, did you find forgiveness?”

“No,” said the other, “but I picked up three good prospects!”

• • •

Pat was found dead in his backyard, and as the weather was a bit on the warm side, the wake was held down to only two days, so his mortal remains wouldn’t take a bad turn. At last his friends laid him in the box, nailed it shut and started down the hill into the churchyard. As it was a long, sloping path and the mourners were appropriately tipsy, one fellow lurched into the gatepost as they entered the graveyard. Suddenly a loud knocking came from in the box. Paddy was alive! They opened the box up and he sat up, wide-eyed, and they all said, “Sure, it’s a miracle of God!” All rejoiced and they went back and had a few more drinks, but later that day, the poor lad died. Really died. Stone cold dead. They bundled him back into his box, and as they huffed and puffed down the hill the next morning, the priest said, “Careful now, boys; mind ye don’t bump the gatepost again.”

• • •

And finally,

Padraic Flaherty came home drunk every evening toward 10. Now, the Missis was never too happy about it, either. So one night she hides in the cemetery and figures to scare the bejeezus out of him. As poor Pat wanders by, up from behind a tombstone she jumps in a red devil costume, screaming, “Padraic Sean Flaherty, sure and ya’ don’t give up your drinkin’ and it’s to Hell I’ll take ye.’ ” Pat, undaunted, staggered back and demanded, “Who the hell are you?” To that the Missis replied, “I’m the divil ya’ damned old fool.” To which Flaherty remarked, “Damned glad to meet you sir, I’m married to yer sister.”

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all.