Irish wit

Speakers attempting to make us laugh tomorrow night at the Greater Pittston Friendly Sons of St. Patrick Banquet have their work cut out for them if they hope to top previous banquets.
One of the best at having banquet-goers rolling in the aisles was the late State Rep. Tom Tigue. (For the record, it still hurts like hell to type “the late” in front of Tom’s name.)
Tom’s deadpan delivery made his jokes all the funnier. Here’s one:
Pat and Mike were out fishing on Galway Bay. Mike reels in a leprechaun who tells him he will grant him a wish if he lets him go. Mike wishes all of Galway Bay would turn into Guinness beer and, just like that, it does.
“Now you’ve done it,” Pat says disgustedly.
“Whaddya mean?” Mike protests. “The whole bay is Guinness.”
“Yeah,” Pat responds. “But now we have to pee in the boat.”
Here’s another:
A guy walks into a bar and orders three shots of Jameson. The bartender pours them and the guy drinks them down, one after another.
He orders three more and does the same.
When he again orders three more, the bartender says, “Buddy, I’ve never seen anyone drink shots like that.”
“If you had what I have,” the guys says, “you’d drink like this too.”
“What do you have?” the bartender asks.
“Fifty cents,” the guy answers.
Here’s one that must be credited to Bob Calpin.
Bob received an award one year and during his remarks he told the story of a guy who takes his wife out to dinner on their wedding anniversary. When his fourth beer is delivered to the table, he holds the glass up like a toast and says, “I love you.”
“That’s the beer talking,” his wife says.
“I’m talking to the beer,” the guy answers.
I’m not sure if this one was ever told at a Friendly Sons Banquet but I can picture my old friend the late Dick Cosgrove telling it more than once.
It’s about the old Irish lady who on her death bed asks for a glass of milk. Her son decides to put a little splash of Jameson in the milk.
After his mom drinks it, the family asks if she has any parting advice.
“Just this,” she says. “Don’t sell that cow.”
Finally, I myself told this true story when I served as toastmaster a few years ago.
When he was a little boy, my Uncle Eddie and his friends stole some apples from a neighbor’s tree. When my grandmother, the former Esther Moran, Irish and Catholic and proud of it, got wind of this, she marched him right to the church to go to confession.
When little Eddie finished confessing his sin, the priest, seizing the moment as an opportunity to teach the lad a Biblical lesson, asked him, “And who was it who stole the first apple?”
“Ned Dooner,” Eddie blurted out.

Ed Ackerman