Ahhh, the Irish. Even when things occur that make us look foolish, we are willing to share our experience to get a laugh and to make others benefit from our misfortune. For nothing is better than a good story. And if the story is good enough, it might be worthy of a free pint from your friends….
Ferguson the blacksmith came in with a badly-damaged foot. The doctor was surprised, for Ferguson was a careful man.
"What happened to you, Paddy?" he asked.
"Well, thirty-three years ago I was a young apprentice with Twomey of Ballinanaspickbuidhe......"
"But about your foot.....?"
"This is about me foot. Twomey had a daughter and your eyes could gaze on her like the way a bullock would eat good grass. The first night I was there she came in when I was in bed and asked if I was comfortable and if I wanted anything and I said I didn't. The next night she came in when I was in bed and she wearing her nightdress and she asked me if there was any single thing she could get me or do for me and I told her I was as comfortable as a bug in a rug. The next night she came in and the girl hadn't a thing on her and she asked me if she could do anything for me and not wanting to keep her standing in the cold and she without a shift I said there was nothing."
"What has that got to do with your foot, Ferguson?" asked the doctor impatiently.
"Sure it was only this morning that I finally thought of what she meant and I was so annoyed with meself that I threw me ten-pound hammer against the wall and it rebounded and broke me ankle."
A local Irisher was boasting about the grand party he and his pals had the night before.
"Aye," sez he, "Wasn't it a great night the five of us had."
"Who were the five?" asked a listener.
"Well," said the Irisher as he began counting on his fingers. "There was one, that's me. There was Clancy, that's two. There was the Quigley twins, that's three, and there was Sullivan, that's four."
"But you said there were five and you count only four."
"Jist a minute, let me count again,' replied the Irisher as he again began to pick off the number on his fingers. "There was one, that was me. Two, there was Clancy. Three, there was the Quigley twins, and four, there was Sullivan. Shure, I must have taken a wee drop too many, because last night I thought there was five of us at the party. Now I know there's only four."
Some years ago, Michael J. Flanagan, a successful New York contractor, was standing on the deck of the Staten Island Ferry when a car got loose and sent him into the river where he drowned.
The following Sunday his widow, all decked out in deepest black, was standing on the church steps after Mass, receiving condolences and enjoying every minute of it, when an old friend of the contractor came up. "I'm sorry, Mary, for your trouble," offered the friend. "Did Mike leave you well fixed?" "Oh, he did!" she said. "He left me almost a half million dollars." "Well now, that's not bad for a man who couldn't read or write." "Nor swim either," added the widow.
The ritual of the wake has not changed in a thousand years . . . They have the kitchen table, and they cover it with a white sheet and a silk pillow and they lay the remains out on the table and all the neighbors come in and pay their last respects. Such a man Iying there is Seamus O'Shaughnessy, passed on, deceased, gone over, demised, and he's stone dead as well. Just then two of the legs on the table caved in and O'Shaughnessy slid onto the floor. And Muldoon said, "My God, what are we going to do?"
Murphy said, "Well, we'll have to level him up somehow. We'll put his head on a chair, we'll put a chair at his feet, we push a chair in underneath him, lift him up and level him out."
Muldoon said, "A good idea! "
Murphy said, "Leave it to me." Murphy looked at the people at the wake and said, "Can we have three chairs for the corpse?"
And they all went, "Hip hip hooray! "