Happy St Patrick's Day ...

[wtm442]

... to all my friends at Club Cobra.

[Roscoe]

Into a 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.”



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.”