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Collection of Irish jokes (Duke McMullan)
(national stereotypes, chuckle, sexual, scatological, offense=irish)

This is something I should have assembled and posted about ten days ago,
but Matters of Consequence prevented. Enjoy.

BTW, Fair Warning: Some of these are sexual, with a leaning to the
scatological in a couple of cases. 'n' now, or forever hold your peace.

...and one last matter. None of these is of my origination, but they are
gathered from numerous sources long forgotten. I can claim to have rewritten
all of them to some extent, indeed, excuse me, indade, many of them began as
some other sort of <ethnic> joke. Now, to business:

Tim O'Cartny took his car to the mechanic, who told him he needed a new
muffler. Tim went straight home and asked his wife to knit him one.
"Ahhhh, Sean," said Micheal McStain, "how'd ye be comin' by that
glorious black eye, me lad?"

Sean O'Malley shook his head and replied, "'Tis the damndest thing. I
was over at Molly's house, dancin' with the lovely lass, when her father
walked in."

"An' old Master Callahan is thinkin' that dancin' is an evil thing,
cured by a black eye, is that it?"

"Na, na, Micheal. The old man's deaf, an' couldn't hear th' music."
In the latter days of WWII, three soldiers were brought to a temporary
Axis POW camp. The three were French, British and Irish. (You can call
'em Frogs, Limeys and Harps if you want too...ethnic slurs are optional.)

A quartermaster lackey was asking them how much underwear they needed
for their stay.

"Four," said the Briton.

"Why four?" asked the Q.L.

"Why, one for each week of the bloody month," the BPOW replied.

The Frenchman was asked how many.

"Seven," he replied. "One for each day of the week."

The Q.L. looked at the Irishman, who replied "Twelve."

Three pairs of eyebrows went up. The Irishman explained, "One for January,
one for February...."
Maureen O'Murrah had taken a Manhattan taxi home from work, since both
of the ladies she usually carpooled with had taken sick. In the
confusion of the short-handed office staff, and hurrying downstairs to
meet the cab, she had left her purse behind.

As the cab pulled up to her apartment building, she was looking about
the seat for her purse when the driver told her the price of her ride.

In great embarrassment, she said, "Ach. I'm not believin' I did this,
Sir, but me purse isn't here. I must have left behind. I'm sorry, but
I'm not havin' the money to pay you just now."

The driver was...well, he was a Manhattan taxi driver. He said, "That's
all right Missy, I'll just pull down into that dark street ahead, and get
back there with you, and I'll just take your panties off."

Maureen chuckled, and said "Shure, an' it's the poor end of the trade
that you'll be gettin'. These panties only cost eighty-nine cents."
Another black-eye joke? Why not:

"Pat, me friend," said Mick. "How'd your little sister come by that
black eye?"

"'Tis the funniest thing, Mick. She was jumpin' rope and forgot to wear
a bra."
"Hello, Pan American Airlines?" said Big Mick Lonegan. "Could ye be
tellin' me how long it takes to fly from Boston to Dublin?"

The voice on the telephone said "I'll see sir, just a minute."

"Ahh, 'tis fast. Thank ye," Mick said as he hung up.
Finian Finegan was doing some brickwork on the fireplace in Mr. Cabot's
expensive home. He was much impressed by the moosehead over the

"'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...[Self-serving and probably untrue details of hunt
deleted]...six men over thirty hours to get him back to our Jeep."

Shaking his reddish curls in admiration, Finian 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?"
Sean O'Malley, a plumber by profession, was called by a lady with an
Emergency in Her Bathroom. Arriving at the scene, he turned off the
water with a sigh, and replaced the faucet washer, ending the Emergency.
The lady was nice-looking, and lonely to boot, so before long Sean was
helping her to heat up the bedroom.

About four-thirty, the telephone rang, and after she hung up, the lady
told Sean: "That was my husband. He'll be home in about half an hour,
but he'll be leaving on a business trip to Chicago this evening at
seven. Why don't you come back at about seven-thirty, and we'll continue
where we left off?"

"Saints!" exclamed Sean, aghast. "On me own time?"
Winging his way to America from Ireland, Father O'Leary asked a
stewardess, "How high is this plane, Miss?"

The stewardess replied, "About thirty-two thousand feet, Father."

The Father's jaw dropped in amazement. "Who'd have believed it? And
could ye tell me how wide it is?"
Lady Crofton-Smythe was giving an upper-crust party, and had hired Lena,
a girl recently come to London from County Cork, as a maid.

As Lena was setting up the tea service, Lady C-S told her to be certain
that there were sugar tongs available.

Lena had never heard of sugar tongs, and asked the Lady what they were
and why they were used.

Lady C-S, always happy to Enlighten the Unenlightened, told Lena that
the problem lay with the gentlemen, who would go to the loo, and to do
what they needed to do, had to touch things which were less than
acceptably sanitary. Yes, even the Nobility was subject to this
masculine frailty.

"Sure, Ma'am, 'twas nothing like this Oi ever saw in Ireland," Lena said,

"Well, the Irish will learn manners someday, Lena," said the Lady, with
an instinctive lifting of her nose.

After the guests had begun arriving that evening, Lady C-S was dismayed
and infuriated not to see any sugar tongs on the tea service.

Lena, trembling, came quickly in answer to the Lady's angry shout.

"But...but, m'Lady, sure, an' Oi put the tongs out just as you told me

Her furious employer pointed to the tea table, devoid of tongs. "Then
where are they, young woman?"

"Why, they're in the loo, of course."
Tim and Mick had stepped back into the brush to answer the call of
nature. As they were blessing the soil with the Golden Elixer, Tim said,
"Sure, an' I wish I was hung like you are, Mick. Yours is big enough
that ye need four fingers to hold it."

Mick glanced over and said, "Ah, now, Timothy, I see you're usin' four

"I am," Tim shot back, "but I'm wettin' on three of 'em."
O'Rourke, the barber, was hearing complaints from his present trimmee
about the price of barbers' services. "I tell you, O'Rourke, these
goddamn New York barbers gotta stranglehold on the citizens. I was in
London just last week, and you charge me half again what they charge

"That may be true, Sir," said the Irishman, "but think of the airfare."
Newly arrived in Boston from the old country, Paddy O'Shea called his
brother back home.

"Sean, it's amazin, these American cities. On most every street, they
got glass outhouses, and it's telephones they put in 'em!"
Paddy O'Shea got friendly with some of the local Boston Irish, and they
took him to an upscale "Irish" pub.

"Amazin', just amazin', that's what America is," he said, looking with
delight into his glass. "Never have I been seein' an ice cube with a
hole in it!"

"Oi sure have," said his host, Michael Sullivan. "Bin married to one fer
fifteen year."
Big Mick Lonegan was rather active in the area of sexual athletics. He
was...well, stud is probably the best description. Of late, he had been
feeling run-down. Seurtan didn't help his Tired Blood, so he finally bit
the...let's just use the cliche' "bullet"...and went to see a doctor.

"Well, Doctor, I'm thinkin' I have sex with maybe twelve -- fifteen of
the lasses each week...on an av'rage week," he boasted.

"Hmmmm. I'm sure that's your trouble, Mr. Lonegan," said the doctor.
"That much sex is just too much work. You probably held your own in your
youth, but when you get to your mid-forties, your body just isn't up to
that any more. I suggest you cut back to, say seven times a week. Once a
day. See if you don't start to feel better."

Relief plainly showing on his broad features, Mick said "It's a relafe,
it is, what you're tellin me. I was thinkin' perhaps me problem was me
As the years went by, Big Mick Lonegan just couldn't perform the way he
used to. His doctor told him that it was normal for a man's sexual drive
to decrease with advancing years, but Big Mick wasn't having any. He
kept pumping away, determined to prove that he remained the man he
always was.

But the banshee of Old Age is persistent, and finally Big Mick admitted
defeat...of a sort. He was determined to salvage what he could of his

He went to his doctor, and told the doc that he couldn't stand his sex
life like this any more; he wanted to be castrated.

The doctor told Big Mick he didn't think that such drastic measures were
called for, but Mick persisted. Finally the doctor agreed to perform the

Two days after the surgery, Mick was sitting in one of the local
Irish-style taverns, sucking on a beer and trying to ignore the
still-present pain.

In the next booth he overheard part of a conversation: "' Oi don't
know what's to become of the Parish...Father Sullivan's suggestin' that
there's probably nothin' wrong with circumcision...."

"Circumcision!" roared Big Mick Lonegan. "THAT'S the word!"

(From the "Rest" of RHF)

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