In honour of St. Patricks Day....
An Irishman named O'Malley went to his doctor after a long illness. The doctor after a lengthy examination, sighed and looked O'Malley in the eye and said, "I've some bad news for you. You have cancer, and it can't be cured. You'd best put your affairs in order."
O'Malley was shocked and saddened. But, being a solid character, he managed to compose himself and walk from the doctor's office into the waiting room, where his son had been waiting.
"Well, son, we Irish celebrate when things are good, and we celebrate when things don't go well. In this case, things aren't so well. I have cancer. Lets head to the pub and have a few pints."
After 3 or 4 pints, or more, the two were feeling a little less somber. There were some laughs and some more beers. They were eventually approached by some of O'Malley's old friends, who were curious as to what the two were celebrating.
O'Malley told them that the Irish celebrate the good as well as the bad. He went on to tell his friends that they were drinking to his impending end. He told his friends, "I have been diagnosed with AIDS."
The friends gave O'Malley their condolences, and they had a couple of more beers.
After the friends left, O'Malley's son leaned over and whispered his confusion. "Dad, I thought you told me that you were dying of cancer, and you just told your friends that you were dying of AIDS!"
O'Malley said, "I don't want any of them sleeping with your Mother after I am gone."
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Into a Belfast pub comes Paddy Murphy, looking like he'd just been run over by a train. His arm is in a sling, his nose is broken, his face is cut and bruised and he's walking with a limp.
"What happened to you?" asks Sean, the bartender.
"Jamie O'Conner and me had a fight," says Paddy.
"That little ****, O'Conner," says Sean, "He couldn't do that to you, he must have had something in his hand."
"That he did," says Paddy, "a shovel is what he had, and a terrible lickin' he gave me with it."
"Well," says Sean, "you should have defended yourself, didn't you have something in your hand?"
"That I did," said Paddy. "Mrs. O'Conner's breast, and a thing of beauty it was, but useless in a fight."
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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'Toole, 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!"
"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."
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Steve
Somebody..... anybody....
ask me if I'm an orange....