Here are a couple of Irish drinking stories followed by traditional Irish blessings:
France’s President, Nicolas Sarkozy was working in his office when his telephone rang.
“Hallo, Mr. Sarkozy!” said a voice in a heavily accented brogue. “This is Paddy down at McCafferty’s Pub in County Cork, Ireland. I am ringing you up to inform you that we are officially declaring war on the French!”
“Well, Paddy,” Sarkozy replied, “This is very important news, indeed! Tell me, how large is your army?”
“As of this moment,” said Paddy, after a bit of calculation, “there’s meself, me cousin Sean, the pub’s proprietor, one Seamus McCafferty Himself, and the pub’s entire darts team. That makes eight!”
Sarkozy replied, “I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100,000 men in my army waiting to mobilize at a moment‘s notice.”
“Oh, faith and begorrah!” said Paddy. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ring you back.”
Sure enough, the very next day, Paddy called again. “Mr. Sarkozy, the war is still on. We have managed to enlist some infantry equipment!”
“And what equipment would that be Paddy?” asked Sarkozy.
“Well, we have a combine, two bulldozers, and O’Hara’s tractor.”
Sarkozy amusedly replied, “Let me tell you about my equipment, Paddy. I have 4,000 tanks and over 5,000 armored personnel carriers. Plus, I have increased my army to 150,000 since we last spoke.”
“Saints preserve us!” said Paddy. “150,000! I’ll have to get back to you.”
Sure enough, Paddy rang up President Sarkozy once again the next day. “Mr. President, the war is still on! We have managed to get ourselves airborne! We have modified young Jack McLaughlin’s ultra-light with a couple of shotguns in the cockpit, and four boys from the Four Shamrocks Bar have joined up as well!”
Sarkozy was silent for a moment, cleared his throat, then said, “Ah! It’s an air war you want. I must tell you, Paddy. I have 150 bombers and 250 fighter jets. Our military bases are surrounded by laser-guided, surface-to-air missiles with a state of the art computer monitoring system. And at last count, I have increased my army to more than 200,000 of France‘s finest infantrymen!”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” replied Paddy, “Let me ring you back.”
Sure enough, Paddy dialed up Sarkozy again the next day. “Top o’ the mornin’, Mr. Sarkozy! I regret to inform you that we had to call the war off.”
“No!” said the President. “I am sorry to hear that. Why the sudden change of heart?”
“Well,” said Paddy, “we had a long chat over a few pints of Guinness and decided there is just no friggin’ way we can feed 200,000 prisoners.”
And one about arthritis:
Muldoon stumbled his way out of a saloon smack in the middle of the afternoon and ran right into the arms of Father O‘Malley.
“Inebriated again, you are!” scoffed the priest. “Muldoon, ‘tis a shame on you, it ‘tis! When are you going to straighten out your life, may I ask?”
Muldoon looked directly into the good father‘s eyes and asked, “Father. What causes arthritis?”
“Arthritis! I’ll tell you what causes it, I will! Drinking cheap whiskey, gambling away your hard earned wages and carousing around with loose women who have lost their way. That’s what causes it. Now tell me, Muldoon. How long have you had arthritis?”
“I don’t,” slurred Muldoon. “Bishop O’Hara has it!”
And Some Irish Blessings:
Don’t mourn for me now
Don’t mourn for me never
I’m going to do nothing
For ever and ever.
May the Good Lord take a liking to you… but not too soon!