World’s Shortest Man 2011

The Guinness Book of World Records now officially recognizes Junrey Balawing, an 18-year-old Filipino man, as the shortest man in the world.

Balawing is the son of a poor Filipino man and stands 23.5 inches tall. He breaks the previous record of 26.4 inches held by Khagendra Thapa Magar of Nepal.

Balawing lives in Sindangan township of the remote Zamboanga del Norte province on the island of Mindanao in the southern Philippines.

His height was officially determined by measuring him both standing (just above 23 inches) and lying down (24 inches).

“Officially he is the world’s shortest man,” said Craig Glenday, editor-in-chief of the Guinness Book of World Records who measured Balawing in front of cheering relatives and villagers.

“Thank you to all of you for supporting my son, the world’s shortest man,” said Junrey’s father, Reynaldo.

Reynaldo also said Junrey had been a sickly child and stopped growing when he was two years old. However, local doctors who examined him were not able to diagnose the problem.

Concepcion, Junrey’s mother, said that he has difficulty standing for long periods and needs assistance when walking.

Uncle, Paulino Empag, who is the local village chief, said “he is a very special boy. He has trouble speaking and standing up, but he is God’s blessing to his family and to the community.”

Junrey’s family had to pull him out of regular school because of fear for his safety — children would crowd around him and on one occasion nearly crushed him in their curiosity.

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A Few More Irish Drinking Stories and Blessings

When in doubt, opt for a few Irish drinking stories because they will cheer you up in no time.

O’Reilly’s Missus:

O’Reilly had been out all night drinking at his favorite pub. As that time of night approached the bartender signaled last call saying the bar would soon be closing. So O’Reilly downed his last sip of Guinness and stood up to leave, but he quickly fell flat on his face.

He tried standing one more time, but, again, he met with the same result. He decided that he would crawl outside to get some fresh air thinking that might sober him up.

Once outside he stood up again, but once again he fell to the ground. So he decided he would crawl the 2 blocks to his home. Upon arriving at his front door he tried standing up once more, but he again dropped flat on his face. So, he crawled inside dragging his way into the bedroom.

After reaching his bed he tried one more time to stand up. This time he did manage to pull himself upright, but he quickly fell straight into bed and was asleep just as his head hit the pillow.

The next morning he awakened to his missus standing over him, shouting, “So, you’ve been out drinking again, have you?”

“And what makes you say that?” O’Reilly asked, feigning an innocent look.

“Because the pub called,” his missus replied. “You forgot your wheelchair there again.”

****

An Irish Blessing:

May your blessings outnumber the shamrocks that grow
And may trouble avoid you wherever you go.

****

The Irish 007:

During the French Revolution in Paris, back in 1789, three accused spies from across the English Channel are waiting to be guillotined.

“Do you want to be beheaded on your back or on your front?” The executioner asked Smith, an Englishman. “On my back,” said Smith. “I’m not afraid of death. I‘ll look him in the eye.”

So the executioner tied Smith down on his back underneath the heavy blade. The executioner then reached up for the lever, and gave it a mighty tug. The blade quickly began to slide down the guillotine toward Smith’s waiting neck but just as quickly jammed in the middle of its track.

The captain of the guard approached Smith telling him it was his lucky day. He was reprieved because, under French law, no man can be sentenced to death twice.

White, another Englishman, was called next by the executioner. White also chose to face the blade, lying on his back. Once again the executioner’s sinewy arm reached for the lever, and once again the blade jammed in the middle of its slide.

The captain of the guard told White that he, too, had managed to cheat death for he also was reprieved.

Murphy, an Irishman, was third.

“Back or front?” shouted the executioner.

“If it’s good enough for Smith and it’s good enough for White, then it’s good enough for me,” said Murphy.

And Murphy, too, was laid down on his back beneath the silver blade. “Begorra!” he shouted looking up at the blade. “Just a minute there. I think I see why it jams.”

More Irish Humor…

More Drunk Humor…

Irish Blessings and More Irish Drinking Tales

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.

And Another:

May the Good Lord take a liking to you… but not too soon!

More Irish Humor…