Drunks

I was out with one of my best drinking buddies, George, and he was talking about marriage, and then his wife. He drank some, then said, "Well, what it comes down to Jimmy, is... well... my wife knows nothing of my wants and needs... she's hardly ever in the mood for sex... I guess what it comes down to is that my wife just doesn't understand me at all, does yours?"

I thought about it a minute or two, then said. "I don't think so George, as a matter of fact, I don't recall her ever even mentioning your name at all."

You know the honeymoon is pretty much over when you start to go out with the boys on Wednesday nites, and so does she.

After the lavish wedding reception, the newlyweds retired to their Honeymoon Suite. The groom turned down the lights and found some nice CDs to stack on the player. Then he excused himself and returned in pajamas and robe. He opened a bottle of champagne and poured them each a drink, unaware that his new bride had already had more than enuff to drink. Finally, he took the girl of his dreams, whom he had wed after a whirl-wind courtship, by the hand and tenderly began to lead her towards the bedroom.

"Damn !" she muttered, "every stinking time I go out with a guy it always ends up the same way."

Jim had been out on the town with a dazzling blonde, and he was returning home as the rosy tints of dawn began to color the skies. Marshaling all his inner resources, he managed an air of sobriety and dignity before the suspicious eye and wagging tongue of his wife. Suddenly, as he was undressing, she punctuated her harangue with a sharp, gasping intake of air. "Jimmy," she asked through titely clenched teeth, "Just where are your underwear ?"

Bleakly, Jimmy perceived through the fog in his mind, that his boxer shorts were indeed missing. Just then, inspiration stuck. "My God !" he cried with aggrieved dismay. "I've been robbed !"

Why don't Jewish mothers drink?
→ Alcohol interferes with their suffering.

Three Irishmen, Paddy, Sean and Shamus, were stumbling home from the pub late one night and found themselves on the road which led past the old graveyard.

"Come have a look over here," says Paddy, "it's Michael O'Grady's grave, God bless his soul. He lived to the ripe old age of 87."

"That's nothing", says Sean, "here's one named Patrick O'Tool, it says here that he was 95 when he died."

Just then, Shamus yells out, "Good God, here's a fella that got to be 145 years old!"

"What was his name?" asks Paddy.

Shamus stumbles around a bit, awkwardly lights a match to see what else is written on the stone marker, and exclaims, "Miles, from Dublin."

Two Scotsmen met 25 years after their last get-together. They hugged and slapped each others back and tears formed in their eyes as they renewed their old friendship.

"Let's have a drink like we did in the old days," the first Scot winked at his mate.

"Aye," his mate replied. "And don't forget it's your shout."

O'Connell was staggering home with a pint of booze in his back pocket when he slipped and fell heavily. Struggling to his feet, he felt something wet running down his leg.

"Please, God," he implored, "let it be blood!"

Tim Kelly was walking therough a dim passageway when someone spoke to him. "Good evenin', Kelly," said the muffled figure. "Don't ye be knowin' your old friend Grogan any more?"

Kelly stared at Grogan, whose face was a patchwork of bandages and adhesive plaster. One arm was in a sling and he was leaning on a crutch.

"Saints!" cried Kelly. "Was ye hit by a train, Grogan, or did ye merely jump from the trestle?"

"It could've been both," said Grogan, "considerin' the feel of it. But the truth is, I was in bed with Murphy's wife when Murphy himself comes in with a murtherin' big shillelagh in his hand, and the inconsiderate creature beat the livin' bejazus outa me."

"He did indade," said Kelly. "But couldn't ye defend y'rself, Grogan? Hadn't ye nothin' in your own hand?"

"Only Mrs. Murphy's ass," said Grogan. "It's a beautiful thing in itself, but not worth a dom in a fight."

What's the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish funeral?
→ One less drunk.