The Mammoth Book of Tasteless Jokes (100 page)

Seamus and Paddy are walking home after a night on the ale. They have no money left to get a taxi and have missed their last bus home. They fnd themselves staggering past the bus depot. Paddy has a brainwave. “Seamus, get in there and steal a bus. I’ll stay out here and keep lookout.”

So Seamus climbs over the wall into the bus depot. Twenty minutes later, Paddy is standing there like a prick, wondering what the hell his mate is doing. Eventually Paddy climbs over the wall as well and sees Seamus running from bus to bus looking at the numbers on the front.

“What the feck are you doing?” says Paddy.

Seamus replies, “I can’t fnd a number 32 anywhere, Paddy.”

“You feckin’ idiot,” says Seamus. “We’ll just steal a number 30 to the roundabout and walk the rest of the way.”

Ireland’s worst ever air disaster occurred early this morning when a small two-seater Cessna plane crashed into a cemetery. So far the body count is 1,267 and rising.

Two men are sitting next to each other at a bar. After a while one looks at the other and says, “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help overhearing just now and I’m guessing from your accent that you’re from Ireland.”

The other guy responds proudly, “Yes, that I am at that.”

The frst man says, “So am I. And where about from Ireland might you be?”

The other man answers, “I’m from Dublin, I am.”

The frst guy responds, “Sure, and so am I. And what street did you live on in Dublin?”

The other man says, “A lovely little area it was. I lived on McCleary Street in the old central part of town.”

The frst man says, “Bejesus, it’s a small world, so did I. And to what school would you have been going?”

The other man answers, “Well now, I went to St Mary’s, of course.”

The frst man gets really excited and says, “And so did I. Tell me, what year did you leave school?”

The other man answers, “Well, let’s see, I left school in 1964.”

The frst guy shouts: “The Good Lord must be smiling down upon us! I can hardly believe our good luck at winding up in the same bar tonight. Can you believe it, I graduated from St Mary’s in 1964 my own self!”

At this the barmaid walks over to the bartender, shaking her head and muttering. “It’s going to be a long night tonight,” she says.

He replies, “Why do you say that?”

“The Murphy twins are pissed again.”

What do you call three Irishmen in a ditch? A sleep over.

Ireland declares war on France. The French President, little Nicolas Sarkozy, is sitting in his offce, sipping a Martini and tickling wife Carla’s bum, when his telephone rings.

“Hello there, Mr Sarkozy,” says a voice at the other end. “This is myself Paddy, down in County Clare, Ireland. I am ringing to inform you that we are offcially declaring war on you!”

“Well, Paddy,” little Sarkozy smirks, “this is indeed terrible news! How big is your army?”

“Right now,” says Paddy “there is myself, my cousin Seamus, the next door neighbour Mick and the whole of the pub darts team. Hang on now . . . that makes eight of us!”

Sarkozy replies, “I have to inform you, Monsieur Paddy, that I have at my disposal a standing army of around 100,000 men.”

“Bejesus!” says Paddy. “I’ll call you back.”

The following day
le petit
Sarkozy takes another call from Paddy. “Mr President sir, I’m calling you to tell you the war is still on. We have found some military equipment!”

“And what equipment would that be, Monsieur Paddy?” Sarkozy enquires.

“We have two combine harvesters, a bulldozer and a fat-bed truck.”

Sarkozy replies: “I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 5,000 tanks and 3,000 armoured troop carriers. Also, I have increased my army to 150,000 since we last spoke.”

“Fecking hell,” says Paddy. “I’ll have to get back to you.”

Sure enough, Paddy rings again the next day. “Mr President, the war is still on! We have managed to get ourselves an air force. We have modifed Shamus’s ultra-light with a couple of shotguns in the cockpit. What’s more, four lads from the pub down the road have agreed to join in.

Sarkozy stifes a laugh and replies, “I must tell you, Monsieur Paddy, that I have 100 bombers and 200 fghter planes. My military bases are surrounded by laser-guided, surface-to-air missile sites. By the way, since we last spoke, I have increased my army to 200,000!”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” says Paddy, “I will have to ring you back.”

Sure enough, Paddy calls again the next day. “Hello Mr President. I am sorry to inform you that we have had to call off the war.”

“Really? I am sorry to hear that, Monsieur Paddy,” says Sarkozy. “Why the change of heart?”

“Well,” says Paddy, “we had a chat over a few pints of Guinness and decided there is no way we can feed 200,000 prisoners.”

An Irishman walks up to the counter and says, “Can I have some Irish sausages please?” The assistant looks him up and down and says: “Are you Irish?”

The Irishman was indignant. “If I had asked you for Italian sausages, would you ask me if I was Italian?” he demanded.

“Well, no . . .”

“If I asked for German Bratwurst, would you ask me if I was German?”

“No.”

Or if I asked you for a Kosher hot dog, would you ask me if I was Jewish? Or if I asked you for a taco, would you ask me if I was Mexican?”

“No.”

“And if I asked you for frogs’ legs, would you ask me if I was French? What about Danish bacon, would you ask me if I was Danish?”

“Well, no, I probably wouldn’t,” conceded the assistant.

The Irishman went on: “So why did you ask me if I’m Irish just because I asked for Irish sausages?”

“Because this is a library, sir.”

How did the Irish acid-bath murderer lose his hand?

Pulling out the plug.