Irish Jokes — worst jokes

Mrs. Ryan, a mean looking woman, claimed her husband was not thoughtful. In this she was wrong; her husband thought about her too much. One morning on his way to work, he thought about her so much that he got off the subway at 34th Street and went to the Greyhound Terminal and took a bus to Yuma, Arizona.

"Didja hear the news?" asked Keenan of his pal at the saloon. "Harrigan drank so much, his wife left him!"

"Bartender! Give me six boilermakers!!"

- And how's yer wife, Pat?

- Sure, she do be awful sick.

- Is ut dangerous she is?

- No, she's too weak t' be dangerous anymore!

Hennessy wasn't a very good looking fellow to start with. Now his business had failed, and his wife and family had left him. Depressed and distracted, he was standing near the edge of the bridge, contemplating suicide. Suddenly, he sensed that someone was behind him, and turning around he saw an ugly little old leprechaun.

"Don't jump," she said, "and I'll grant you three wishes."

"Right," he said. "my first wish is to have $100,000." She said, "When you check your account, you will find that you are in credit to that amount." He then said, "My second wish is to have my wife and children back." She said, "They will be there when you get home." He said, "My third wish is to be tall and handsome." She said, "When you look in the mirror, you will find that your wish has been granted."

Then she added, "I want you to do something in return for me. I want you to kiss me." He looked at her and shuddered at the thought. But under the circumstances he thought he should do as she wanted. He took her in his arms and kissed her again and again.

She said, "What age are you?"

He replied, "I'm forty."

She said, "Don't you think that you're a bit too old to be believing in leprechauns?"

Two Irish friends greeted each other while waiting their turn at the bank window. "This reminds me of Finnegan," remarked one. "What about Finnegan?" inquired the other. "'Tis a story that Finnegan died, and when he greeted St. Peter, he said: 'It's a fine job you've had here for a long time.' 'Well, Finnegan,' said St. Peter, 'here we count a million years as a minute and a million dollars as a cent.' 'Ah!' said Finnegan, 'I'm needing cash. Lend me a cent.' 'Sure,' said St. Peter, 'just wait a minute.'"

This is a true story of the late Irish author Brendan Behan who one night collapsed in a diabetic coma in a Dublin street. It was at a time when he was at the height of his drunken notoriety and passes-by naturally thought he was dead drunk. They took him to the nearby surgery of one of Dublin's most fashionable and respected doctors. The doctor decided to take a cardiograph and, somewhat nervous of his patient, thought to humor him. He explained the workings of the cardiograph needle as it registered the faint heartbeats of the very sick and semiconscious Brendan.

"That needle there is writing down your pulses, Mr. Behan, and I suppose, in its own way, it is probably the most important thing you have ever written."

To which Behan replied: "Aye, and it's straight from me heart, too."

The origin of the bagpipes was being discussed and the representatives of different nations were eagerly disclaiming responsibility for the instrument. Finally, an Irishman said, "Well, I'll tell you the truth about it. The Irish invented them and sold them to the Scots as a joke; and the Scots haven't seen the joke yet!"

The Boston taxi driver backed into the stationary fruit stall and within seconds he had a cop beside him.

"Name?"

"Brendan O'Connor."

"Same as mine. Where are you from?"

"County Cork."

"Same as me......" The policeman paused with his pen in the air. "Hold on a moment and I'll come back and talk about the old county. I want to say something to this fella that ran into the back of your cab."

The American tourist in Dublin had been complaining a great deal about the food. "Here," he said to the waitress holding out a piece of meat for inspection, "do you call that pig?" "Which end of the fork, sir?" the waitress asked sweetly.

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.