The lilt of Irish slaughter?

Well, it's that day again.

If I had to guess, I'd say the Irish people have become the most popular immigrants we've ever had in America, and that's not just because they've got a day strongly associated with drinking that goes back to colonial times. Other cultures do just as much whoopin' it up and have more popular food, too. But one thing the Irish people and their US descendants have going for them is their sense of humor. 

At a time when everyone's looking to be angry at on behalf of their long-buried ancestors, do the Irish waste their time doing that? 

You'd better believe it. I know third- and fourth-generation Americans of only partial Irish descent who hate the English as if the English had collectively and personally insulted their mothers last week.

Can the Irish be belligerent? What makes you even ask? 

Look in some dictionaries under the word "belligerent" and you'll see a picture of Paddy throwing a roundhouse. If you're wearin' o' the orange in some places today, you might be wearin' o' the black eye tomorrow. 

But the Irish have a much-admired sense of humor. The Jewish people in America do as well, famous for it going back to the 19th century, but their humor carries more of the fatalism that centuries of pogroms will inspire. Irish jokes are usually intended to show how clever they are, how dumb others are, or just how silly people can be. And who has a problem with that? We're all doofuses sometimes. Even Chuck Norris, I'd wager, although no one has ever seen it. (And lived.) 

(Chuck's about half Irish, BTW.)

Let us give thanks today for the Irish, for managing to keep a sense of humor in this difficult old world. Life is hard whether you can laugh or not, but it's harder if you cannot. 

TP taste test.

Finally climbing my way out of deadlines, my friends! But I can't let a Thursday pass without giving you something entertaining for your visit.

I was shaving at the mirror when junior dog Izzy paid me a friendly call. Then he set to work, quick as a wink. 

In less time than it took me to finish shaving with the electric razor, he had de-papered the toilet. He also took half the cardboard roll with him as a souvenir. 

This is, fortunately, not the crisis it might have been two years ago, those innocent days when we would stop the Chinese Death Virus in its tracks in two weeks and our biggest problem was the hoarders and wreckers who took all the toilet paper. While inflation runs rampant and supply issues still curdle our cream, at least we have plenty of Angel Soft and the like to go around. Losing a roll to the inquisitive chompers of Chew-Chew Charlie is not the worst thing that can happen, nor is TP the worst thing he has chewed upon. (The new iPhone is working out just fine, thanks for asking.)

But I'm not going to keep the bathroom door open while I'm shaving anymore. He has plenty of toys to abuse; he doesn't need to lay waste to the Quilted Northern too. 

Meanwhile, speaking of toilets, today is St. Patrick's Day, which means amateur day for many out there, especially among the youths. Be careful on the roads, and in public bathrooms, and anyplace where drunks may cause mayhem. 'Twould be a sin indeed for the great saint's day to be remembered for something awful that befell ye. And remember: Water may run in the gutter, but 'twill never put ye there. 

Return of Fredcoin!

Yes, friends, it's another plug for everyone's favorite cryptocurrency, Fredcoin! 

It's occurred to me that some of you out there in the virtual world still haven't invested your worthless U.S. dollars in rock-solid Fredcoin, and I wonder why. If you find yourself unaccountably reluctant, just look at this notarized list of 15 reasons to put your money in Fredcoin, and I'm sure you will come around. 

1. At Fredcoin, we never fight about whether someone on the bill fought Indians or owned slaves or otherized the bi-gendered in the Gilded Age. We just put Fred on all the documentation and ignore all that trouble. 

2. You can cash in your Fredcoin for S&H Green Stamps anytime you like. 

3. Fredcoin has 25% of your daily requirement of magnesium. 

4. You can't be suckered into losing your Fredcoin in a pachinko machine. 

5. Unlike other crypto guys, I will never forget the password that keeps Fredcoin secure. It's PASSWORD. Isn't that clever?

6. Fredcoin can be used to treat lumbago and has few side effects. 

7. On St. Patrick's Day, ask your bartender if he takes O'Fredcoin, our special issue for the holiday!

8. The word Fredcoin has only eight letters and two syllables. 

9. We're on track to make Fredcoin the first cryptocurrency on the moon!

10. Congress is printing money like crazy people, but not Fredcoin! Who would you rather trust, our insane Congress or ol' reliable Fred?

11. We expect to nail down our sponsorship of the Fredapalooza Festival this year, featuring great acts like the Flangepart Five, Hookers & Lookers, and Smiley Jim and His Magic Accordion. 

12. Wombats prefer Fredcoin two-to-one over regular money.

13. Bitcoin is common as dirt. Fredcoin is for the rarified smart set.

14. Fredcoin is available in Regular and Menthol.

15.  Chuck Norris's birth name is Fred Nioc, which you'll notice is Fredcoin spelled sideways, sort of.

So make Fredcoin part of your complete breakfast!

Finally, a friendly reminder that Daylight Savings Time has begun, so it's time to set those clocks ahead one hour! It's easier to push them forward one hour than to go all around the dial to push them back an hour. It's the only place in life where it's easier to spring forward than to fall behind. 

Fred's Book Club: Irish Humor, via Chicago.

Welcome back to the Wednesday book feature called the Humpback Writers for no reason we can determine. This year St. Patrick's Day falls on Hump Day, so we are behooved to profile an Irish-themed book for the day, albeit one from a native Chicagoan. And that brings us to Finley Peter Dunne, creator of the irrepressible Mr. Dooley and a Fred fave.

I was willing to spend a fortune on him.

During a hot spell in 2017 I profiled Dunne and his great teller of tales, Mr. Dooley. Dooley is a classic example of a lower class character of long standing, that being a comical retailer of truths who is wiser than the smart set who would look down on him. Dunne, writing at the turn of the last century, chose an Irish gentleman to be his avatar. Other examples might include Joel Chandler Harris's Uncle Remus, Mike Royko's Slats Grobnik, and basically Will Rogers's entire career. 

My 1963 paperback, which may have passed through many hands until it came into mine, contains essays on such topics as the youthful President Teddy Roosevelt, the benefits of hanging aldermen, international affairs, and women's suffrage. The hardest part of reading Dunne's work is to know what the issues of the time were; the second hardest is to get in the rhythm of the Irish dialect as portrayed on paper. If you know a little American history and have been able to get through Mark Twain, you'll be all right with Mr. Dooley. 

I can find no better way to celebrate St. Patrick's Day literarily than presenting one of the essays from the book -- which can also be found in the collection of Dunne's work on Project Gutenberg, thanks to friend Mongo and those other fine preservers of literature in this age of book-burning. In a time when the police are indicted and violent felons turned loose, I thought it would be good to hear from Mr. Dooley...

ON CRIMINALS.

"Lord bless my sowl," said Mr. Dooley, "childher is a gr-reat risponsibility,—agr-reat risponsibility. Whin I think iv it, I praise th' saints I niver was married, though I had opporchunities enough whin I was a young man; an' even now I have to wear me hat low whin I go down be Cologne Sthreet on account iv th' Widow Grogan. Jawn, that woman'll take me dead or alive. I wake up in a col' chill in th' middle iv th' night, dhreamin' iv her havin' me in her clutches.

"But that's not here or there, avick. I was r-readin' in th' pa-apers iv a lad be th' name iv Scanlan bein' sint down th' short r-road f'r near a lifetime; an' I minded th' first time I iver see him,—a bit iv a curly-haired boy that played tag around me place, an' 'd sing 'Blest Saint Joseph' with a smile on his face like an angel's. Who'll tell what makes wan man a thief an' another man a saint? I dinnaw. This here boy's father wur-rked fr'm morn till night in th' mills, was at early mass Sundah mornin' befure th' alkalis lit th' candles, an' niver knowed a month whin he failed his jooty. An' his mother was a sweet-faced little woman, though fr'm th' County Kerry, that nursed th' sick an' waked th' dead, an' niver had a hard thought in her simple mind f'r anny iv Gawd's creatures. Poor sowl, she's dead now. May she rest in peace!

"He didn't git th' shtreak fr'm his father or fr'm his mother. His brothers an' sisters was as fine a lot as iver lived. But this la-ad Petey Scanlan growed up fr'm bein' a curly-haired angel f'r to be th' toughest villyun in th' r-road. What was it at all, at all? Sometimes I think they'se poison in th' life iv a big city. Th' flowers won't grow here no more thin they wud in a tannery, an' th' bur-rds have no song; an' th' childher iv dacint men an' women come up hard in th' mouth an' with their hands raised again their kind.

"Th' la-ad was th' scoorge iv th' polis. He was as quick as a cat an' as fierce as a tiger, an' I well raymimber him havin' laid out big Kelly that used to thravel this post,—'Whistlin'' Kelly that kep' us awake with imitations iv a mockin' bur-rd,—I well raymimber him scuttlin' up th' alley with a score iv polismin laborin' afther him, thryin' f'r a shot at him as he wint around th' bar-rns or undher th' thrucks. He slep' in th' coal-sheds afther that until th' poor ol' man cud square it with th' loot. But, whin he come out, ye cud see how his face had hardened an' his ways changed. He was as silent as an animal, with a sideways manner that watched ivrything. Right here in this place I seen him stand f'r a quarther iv an' hour, not seemin' to hear a dhrunk man abusin' him, an' thin lep out like a snake. We had to pry him loose.

"Th' ol' folks done th' best they cud with him. They hauled him out iv station an' jail an' bridewell. Wanst in a long while they'd dhrag him off to church with his head down: that was always afther he'd been sloughed up f'r wan thing or another. Between times th' polis give him his own side iv th' sthreet, an' on'y took him whin his back was tur-rned. Thin he'd go in the wagon with a mountain iv thim on top iv him, sway in' an' swearin' an' sthrikin' each other in their hurry to put him to sleep with their clubs.

"I mind well th' time he was first took to be settled f'r good. I heerd a noise in th' ya-ard, an' thin he come through th' place with his face dead gray an' his lips just a turn grayer. 'Where ar-re ye goin', Petey?' says I. 'I was jus' takin' a short cut home,' he says. In three minyits th' r-road was full iv polismin. They'd been a robbery down in Halsted Sthreet. A man that had a grocery sthore was stuck up, an' whin he fought was clubbed near to death; an' they'd r-run Scanlan through th' alleys to his father's house. That was as far as they'd go. They was enough iv thim to've kicked down th' little cottage with their heavy boots, but they knew he was standin' behind th' dure with th' big gun in his hand; an', though they was manny a good lad there, they was none that cared f'r that short odds.

"They talked an' palavered outside, an' telephoned th' chief iv polis, an' more pathrol wagons come up. Some was f'r settin' fire to th' buildin', but no wan moved ahead. Thin th' fr-ront dure opened, an' who shud come out but th' little mother. She was thin an' pale, an' she had her apron in her hands, pluckin' at it. 'Gintlemin,' she says, 'what is it ye want iv me?' she says. 'Liftinant Cassidy,' she says, ''tis sthrange f'r ye that I've knowed so long to make scandal iv me before me neighbors,' she says. 'Mrs. Scanlan,' says he, 'we want th' boy. I'm sorry, ma'am, but he's mixed up in a bad scrape, an' we must have him,' he says. She made a curtsy to thim, an' wint indures. 'Twas less than a minyit before she come out, clingin' to th' la-ad's ar-rm. 'He'll go,' she says. 'Thanks be, though he's wild, they'se no crime on his head. Is there, dear?' 'No,' says he, like th' game kid he is. Wan iv th' polismin stharted to take hold iv him, but th' la-ad pushed him back; an' he wint to th' wagon on his mother's ar-rm."

"And was he really innocent?" Mr. McKenna asked.

"No," said Mr. Dooley. "But she niver knowed it. Th' ol' man come home an' found her: she was settin' in a big chair with her apron in her hands an th' picture iv th' la-ad in her lap."

Women.

Today is International Women's Day, and good for them. 

Some guys think a holiday like this is silly -- women outnumber us in America by 50.8 to 49.2, and since when do we celebrate a special day for the majority? There's no White Folks Day or Hetero Pride Day or Lottery Losers Day or People Who Hated Algebra Day. Special days are reserved to give minority groups attention.

Well, I don't care. Honestly, I don't personally know any women who are going out there to make a big deal of it. In New York we can barely go to a restaurant, never mind a parade. I think women, including my wife, will be happy to take pride in the advances that they have made in society in the last 150 years and see what Google is doodling for it, and that's about it. I'm just glad I don't have to buy anything. 

Tobacco Celebrates Women, 1984

This still sounds like I'm being a typical patronizing caveman, doesn't it? I guess so. No offense is meant, though. I just don't get excited over dates that have no religious or national significance. Women's Day's date of March 8 doesn't commemorate the day women went over the hill to defeat the forces of the International Men's Army or something; they just picked March 8 for no reason I can find. Russian women seem to have been the ones who settled on the date, which is even stranger to me, since March 8 is still very cold in most of Russia. I guess they had their reasons. If I were looking for a date that would be good to get a parade and show of force up, I'd go with June 5. 

Again, I'm not picking on women. I barely commemorate my own birthday. My ancestry is a mixed bag, so I don't get worked up over ethnic holidays. Even St. Patrick's Day has lost its pride of place for my Irish side since I stopped drinking. 

 

I think women are pretty awesome, and I know that women are as smart as men, and particular women are smarter than every guy I know. I'm glad women can stand on their own without men, own whatever they want, do whatever they like, and so on, and I'm sad and angered for societies where they can't. And I dislike men who put on a dress and pretend to be female so they can gain unfair advantages in sports or make their stupid résumés look better to get government jobs. That's as bad as a white guy painting his face and applying for minority grants.

So that's all I got. If you are a woman and you're celebrating the day, enjoy it! You won't hear a bad word out of me about females. If you want to hear someone say anything bad about them, ask my wife. She thinks teenage girls are evil and women are worse backbiters, backstabbers, and passive-aggressive manipulators than men; that men are liars but aren't nearly as good at lying as women. But you didn't hear that from me. 

Irishmen: Sober as judges?

Well, here it is, Patty's Day again, and toime to go get likkered up at Ye Olde Pubbe, dance some jigs, and start a donnybook! Wee hoo!

I know a lot of people who are happy to blame their drinking on Irishness, and at any time of year, not just St. Patrick's Day. I also know a lot of people who have stopped drinking who blame their former drinking on Irishness (sometimes Catholicism too, as if the pope forced them to drink). But do the Irish really drink more than other people? Or are the Irish actually sober as judges?

After all, ask any Irishman in New York and he'll tell you that this drunk thing is a slander on the Irish by the English. Note that these are some of the same Irishmen who blame their drinking on being Irish. But let's give it the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

Toby Young, British educator, journalist, sometime politician, and spectacularly failed magazine editor and scriptwriter, once said that "The English drink as if they do not want to live." Perhaps then the English are just projecting their own flaws upon their beleaguered island neighbors?

And what about the French? I edited a French cookbook recently, and apparently they put booze in everything. They will not make a simple side dish of rice without squeezing wine into it. They probably rub framboise in their scalps as a dandruff cure. They can't sneeze without selecting a nice Burgundy to go with it. Are they worse drunks than the Irish?

And don't forget the Scandinavians. They have had the toughest drunk driving laws in the world for a long time because they couldn't stop themselves from flying off the fjords in their Saabs without the force of law. A Norseman of my acquaintance once told me, "Norwegians drink just as much as the Irish, but people don't know it because we don't sing."

But none of this disproves the unspoken assumption that the Irish are the biggest drunks in the world. We need data.

According to World Atlas -- which may not be the most accurate but they seem to use good info -- Belarus is far and away tops in per capita adult alcohol consumption, with the adults of this Eastern European nation each consuming a quite-literally-staggering 17.5 liters of pure alcohol per year. At standard 80 proof (40% alcohol) for the liquor, that means every man and woman is drinking the equivalent of about 44 liters of vodka per year, or more than 11.5 gallons. That's a lot of booze. The first runner-up is Moldova, at 16.8 liters; in fact, with the exception of tiny Andorra (#7), the top ten per capita alcohol consuming nations are all Eastern European countries. Ireland makes the list at #21, in a virtual tie with Luxembourg, and Great Britain is at #25. France (#18) does beat Ireland and Great Britain; the United States isn't in the top 25. We try, but I think the Mormons and Baptists hold us back.

I doubt this will change any of the revelry going on today, but for future reference, if anyone blames his drinking on his heritage, ask if they are Belarusian. We should thus do our most outrageous drinking on St. Euphrosyne's day. St. Euphrosyne of Polotsk is the patron saint of Belarus and her feast day is May 23. She doesn't look like someone who would approve of such shenanigans, though.

Still, if you want to get faced on May 23, just tell everyone you're celebrating St. Euphrosyne of Polotsk and your Belarusian heritage. When they point out (probably with justice) that you are not Belarusian, tell them, "Everyone is Belarusian on St. Euphrosyne of Polotsk's Day!"

Just don't confuse her with St. Euphrosyne of Alexandria, whose feast day is September 25. Getting drunk for no reason on September 25 would be embarrassing.

Sweet eats.

I'm trying to give up sweets this Lent, except for an upcoming birthday party for which Pope Me has already given dispensation. Still, that's going to mean an unusually long time for me to go without sugar. Can I survive without this key food group?

Meanwhile, though, I can live on the ghost of sugars past, like:

I've ridden Oreos' case for their weird varieties in recent times, such as the Peeps Oreo and the Pop Rocks Oreo. But Pistachio?

Yep -- and although this photo doesn't show it too well, the filling is green.

I expected to dislike the Pistachio Oreo Thin and revolt against its nuttiness, but I was wrong. It's delicious. Chocolate and nuts are a great combo, although one sees the pistachio/chocolate duet far less often than, say, almond/chocolate. My wife was not so enthused about it, but I say, if you like Oreos and pistachios, you'll probably like these.

On the topic of Peeps, though: With Easter coming, the folks at Just Born continue to surprise us with new variations on the Peep theme:

The Orange Sherbet Peep (I always wants to spell "sherbet" as "sherbert") is an interesting take. The orange flavor is pleasant, not forceful like the "fruit" flavors of a Jolly Rancher. The marshmallow candy is usually improved by dipping in chocolate, which adds depth and texture; here they've used "crème flavored fudge," which is not just a sweet hit like white chocolate, but more milky. Really makes it a Creamsicle Peep. Good job, Peeps people.

Getting back to Oreos for a moment: One of the more successful Oreo types I reviewed in 2017 was the Dunkin' Donuts Mocha, and I mention that now because A) the spreading of the Dunkin' Donuts brand continues and B) they are clearly still determined to drop the Donuts from the name.

Yoplait released these four Dunkin' Donuts-inspired flavors, and I as much as I hate to keep on this positive note today, these are pretty good too. The French Vanilla Latte is excellent if you're a fan of coffee yogurts; the Apple Fritter has a strong and tasty apple flavor, like the classic Dannon Dutch Apple back in le jour. The Cinnamon Coffee Roll is flat-out cinnamon and nothing wrong with that. The Boston Cream may be the least successful, first because chocolate is not a great blend with yogurt, and second because the subtle flavor of Boston cream is lost in translation. Still good, though.

Anyway, if you want mild disappointment, I always say you can't beat a McDonald's shake. And now is the time of year to join Uncle O'Grimacey for a Shamrock Shake. 

Still minty. Still greener than the inside of a Pistachio Oreo Thin. McDonald shakes are okay if you're really jonesing for a shake, but there's very little ice cream texture or flavor to one; really, they're so marshmallowy they should work with Just Born on a line of Peeps shakes.

So that's my tour de sweets for now; although our Lenten sacrifices are not supposed to be for selfish reasons, I wouldn't mind if my pants fit better by Easter. I hope Pope Me won't mind.

There's got to be a morning after.

"Oh, not much, Max; the kids had something at school... How was your St. Patrick's Day?"

"Yeah, we made snow leprechauns and...
What? Can I recommend a criminal
defense attorney?"

St. Patrick's dough.

Dunkin' Donuts has dropped the ball on St. Patrick's Day this year. 

Seriously, with all the seasonal doughnuts they make (including the bizarre Winter flavored doughnuts I noted in January), it's surprising that all they've done is one chocolate-frosted doughnut with a small fraction of shamrock sprinkles. 

Always after me lucky charms.

As I think of it, though, a lot of outfits that make hay out of holidays don't do anything for this one. Sure, McDonald's has Shamrock Shakes, but who else? There are bags of green M&M's but they don't make a holiday themed bag. There's no Reese's Shamrock. No St. Peeptrick. Sure, Google did a doodle, but you can't eat it.

I guess there are some understandable reasons for this sugar-shunning of St. Patrick's:

1) It's an ethnic holiday. Popular and universally celebrated in the States as it is, important as it is for the Catholic and universal church, it's always been a big day for the Irish people. (You may say Duh!, but remember, it's about a non-Irish-born saint, not the people he spent his life saving.)

2) And on that note, it's a religious holiday. No Jesus, no St. Patrick.

3) And it's also sometimes a political holiday, yes. The Irish have always used it to tweak the noses of people they don't like -- that is, the British -- even though Patrick was himself born in Britain.

These are the kinds of things that turn secular candy and baked goods companies off holidays. So I guess we'll have to eat corned beef and drink green beer. Or we could drink Shamrock Shakes and eat Lucky Charms. The sugar high might actually leave us with a case of the shamrock shakes, actually.

More decor.

Mr. Philbin took issue with me following my piece yesterday on the family with that still has a Christmas tree in their picture window. He said I should have mentioned, especially as this site has a No-Santa-Shaming policy, that many people in such northern climes as these are stuck with their outdoor Christmas decorations until the spring thaw. And I concede the point. You may have put the lights along the edge of the second-story roof on a pleasingly cool day in November, but you do not want to take them off on a ice-ridden frost-bitten blustery nightmare from the Ninth Circle in February. 

Just saying, though, probably wouldn't be
too hard to bring this guy in off the porch.

We've had some mild days this winter, so most houses with any decoration at this point have Valentine's Day hearts and the like. 

Awwwww

The question is, when do you take those down? Christmas, as I've discussed ad nauseum, is a season, not one day; other holidays are one day. So should the hearts come down on February 15? But no one seems to be in a rush to do that around here, except maybe Irish families that are a little hard on the Irish Pride, who already have shamrock stuff up. As far as public decor goes, Valentine's Day will last until the end of the month.

We've gotten into the habit of thinking of months as the most popular holiday associated with them, and decorate accordingly:

January - New Year's
February - Valentine's Day
March - St. Patrick's Day
April - Easter
May - Memorial Day
June - First Day of Summer
July - Independence Day
August - Uhhh
September - Back to School
October - Halloween
November - Thanksgiving
December - Christmas

There are three problems with our approach:

1) August, obviously, needs a big holiday of some kind. Perhaps Bad Poetry Day (the 18th), National Dog Day (26th), or Be an Angel Day (22nd) could get some traction.

2) Easter sometimes falls as early as March, so you have a wreck when it collides with St. Patrick's Day, and then there's nothing for April but leftover bunnies and eggs.

3) Holidays like Presidents Day, Veterans Day, and even Labor Day get overlooked because of the more popular holidays that fall in the same month. Everyone loves Labor Day because of the long weekend, but how do you decorate for that? Getting the kids off to school is much easier and much better anyway.

So there's a lot to this holiday business we still haven't worked out. As for us, we're getting ready for Old Stuff Day on March 2, by throwing old stuff all over the lawn. Which is how some of my St. Patrick's days have wound up, too, come to think of it.

Oirish Day.

Let's get 'em out of the way, shall we?

***

Paddy and Mike are lost in the Alps when they see a St. Bernard bounding toward them, a little keg under its chin.
"Thank hivvin!" says Mike. "We're saved! Look, it's man's best friend!"
"Yah!" says Paddy. "And will ye look at the soize of the dog that's bringin' it!"

***

Irish Alzheimer's: You forget everything but the grudge.

***

Sean and Declan are in the employment office looking at the want ads. Declan shakes his head sadly and says, "It's no use, Sean. Look, this office wants toipists and we can't toipe. This comp'ny wants plumbers and we can't plumb. And the lumberjacks want tree fellers an' there's only two of us."

***

Tim is a general contractor, giving an estimate on a home improvement job. As he wanders through the house with the homeowner, he suddenly sticks his head out the living room window and yells "Green soide up! Green soide up!"

Later they pass into the kitchen, and Tim once again sticks his head out the window and yells "Green soide up! Green soide up!"

After making many notes on a clipboard and shaking hands with the homeowner, Tim steps out the front door. Suddenly, looking to the side, Tim screams, "Green soide up! Oh, God almighty, green soide up!"

"Excuse me," says the homeowner, "but why do you keep saying 'green side up'?"

"Well, beggin' yer pardon," says Tim, "but me boys are over at yer neighbor's, layin' down sod."

***

You've heard of the Irish accountant? One potater, two potaters, three potaters, four...

***

The Finnegans invite Fr. O'Hara over for a visit, and to see the new baby again.

"Christopher is a fine little lad," says the kindly priest, admiring the baby crawling on the floor.

"What do you supposed he'll be when he grows up, Father?" asks Mr. Finnegan. 

"Well, now, let us see," says Fr. O'Hara, rummaging in his pockets. He places before the baby a coin, a pencil, a small crucifix, and a folded penknife.

"Here's how I learned it," says Fr. O'Hara. "If the boy takes the coin, he's going to go into business. If he takes the pencil, he'll become a professor. If he takes the crucifix, as did I, he's destined for the priesthood. And if he takes the penknife, you can bet he'll be a soldier."

As the adults wait, Baby Christopher looks carefully at each of the four items. Then, with a sudden swoop, he gathers all four to himself.

"Saints preserve us!" cries Fr. O'Hara. "He's going to be a Jesuit!" 

***

MacGillycuddy is standing downtown holding the lamppost with one hand and a rope with the other. The constable comes by and says, "Go home, MacGillycuddy, you're drunk."

"I am not."

"What're you doing with that rope?"

MacGillycuddy looks down at the rope, up at the constable, down at the rope, and says, "Begorrah! Either I've found a rope or lost me horse."

***

Probably an Indonesian.

***

Doyle and Duffy are in the army and have to learn to parachute. The instructor explains how the ripcord works, and the backup ripcord as well. They practice jumping off of things close to the ground. Soon the boys are ready to go up. 

Duffy goes first, bravely leaping out of the plane, counting to ten, pulling the cord. Sure enough his chute pops open, he's grabbed by the harness in a mighty grip, and begins to slowly drift toward earth.

Doyle is not so lucky. He leaps out, pulls the ripcord, and it pops off in his hand. Doyle is terrified, but he remembers his backup cord. He reaches around and finds it, and yanks. It pulls open the chute, but being incorrectly packed, the chute flies away in a lump behind him. Now he's falling fast. 

Duffy is drifting down, enjoying the view, when he hears Doyle coming upon him from above, and then passing:

"aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"

Duffy immediately begins to pull off his harness, yelling, "Oh, so it's a race ye want, is it?"

***

May those that love us, love us

And may those that do not love us, may God turn their hearts

And if He doesn't, may He turn their ankles

So we'll know them by their limping

***

That ought to load you up with enough material to start a fight. Happy St. Patrick's to you! 

Crap Irish riddles.

What's yellow and became High King of the Irish in 1002?
Banana Boru.

Why do they play the bagpipes at Irish funerals?
To make sure the poor feller's dead.

Why are there no Irish car manufacturers?
Because not everything runs on stout.

Why's it called Irish soda bread?
'Coz we used flour and stuff and baked it, soders some bread to eat.

What's green and has three leaves?
A dining room pickle.

What do you call a man-pulled carriage in Munster Province?
A Limerickshaw. 

When is an Irishman not an Irishman?
When he's an Ulsterman, ya great bastahd! [Punching ensues]

How many OCD Irishmen does it screw to put in a lightbulb?
One, but he has to put it in 723 times.

What do you call an Irishman's patella?
A Blar-Knee.

Riddle me this, Begorrahman!

What do you call an Jewish-Irish sprite?
A Leprecohen. 

What do you call a sprite who writes patriotic songs?
A George M. Leprecohan. 

Why do U.S. lawyers make a median salary of $114,300 while Irish lawyers make $46,807?
St. Patrick chased the snakes out of Ireland.

Can I have a pint of Bass, please?
You'll take Guiness and like it, English bastahd! [Punching ensues]

How does an Irish CPA do his accounting?
One potato, two potato, three potato, four...

Who wrote these here riddles?
I did.
Take this, ya bastahd! [Punching ensues]