Paddy had been drinking at his local
Dublin pub all day and most of the night celebrating St Patrick's Day.
Mick, the bartender says, 'You'll not
be drinking anymore tonight, Paddy'
Paddy replies, 'OK Mick, I'll be on
my way then'. Paddy spins around on his stool and steps off. He falls flat on
his face. 'Shoite' he says and pulls himself up by the stool and dusts himself
off. He takes a step towards the door and falls flat on his face, 'Shoite,
Shoite!'
He looks to the doorway and thinks to
himself that if he can just get to the door and some fresh air he'll be fine.
He belly crawls to the door and shimmies up to the door frame. He sticks his
head outside and takes a deep breath of fresh air, feels much better and takes
a step out onto the sidewalk and falls flat on his face.
'Bi'Jesus... I'm fockin' focked,' he says.
He can see his house just a few doors
down, and crawls to the door, hauls himself up the door frame, opens the door
and shimmies inside. He takes a look up the stairs and says 'No fockin' way'.
He crawls up the stairs to his
bedroom door and says 'I can make it to the bed'. He takes a step into the room
and falls flat on his face. He says 'Fock it' and falls into bed.
The next morning, his wife, Jess,
comes into the room carrying a cup of coffee and says, 'Get up Paddy. Did you
have a bit to drink last night ?'
Paddy says, 'I did, Jess. I was
fockin' pissed. But how'd you know?'
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