March 17, 2021
“May you have all the happiness and luck that life can hold—and at the end of your rainbows ay you find a pot of gold.
I am off to the doctor this morningshe here is a reprint from a past Saint Patricks day.
Ray’s Daily first published on March 17, 2004
Saint Patrick, (389?-461?), called the Apostle of Ireland, Christian prelate. His birthplace is uncertain, but it was probably in southwestern Britain; his British name was Succat. At 16 years of age he was carried off by Irish marauders and passed his captivity as a herdsman near the mountain Slemish in county Antrim (according to tradition) or in county Connacht. The young herdsman saw visions in which he was urged to escape, and after six years of slavery he did so, to the northern coast of Gaul. Ordained a priest, possibly by Saint Germanus, at Auxerre, he returned to Ireland. Sometime after 431, Patrick was appointed successor to St. Palladius, first bishop of Ireland. Patrick concentrated on the west and north of Ireland, establishing his see at Armagh. Patrick’s two surviving works are written in Latin and demonstrate his acquaintance with the Vulgate translation of the Bible. In one of these works, the Confessions, Patrick portrays himself as an ignorant yokel in an unequal contest with the powerful and learned adherents of Pelagianism. His reported use of the shamrock as an illustration of the Trinity led to its being regarded as the Irish national symbol. A strange chant of his, called the Lorica, is preserved in the Liber Hymnorum (Book of Hymns), and what purports to have been a handbell he used during Mass is shown in the National Museum in Dublin. His traditional feast day is March 17.
This is all well and good but where is the corned beef and cabbage, green beer and bag pipes. When I could party no one told me with other stuff, all they said was to get to the party as soon as possible, wear some green and then act like a drunken Irishman in honor of good St. Pat who drove the snakes out of Ireland but was not able to drive them from the day-after hangovers.
May the road rise to meet you. May the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, the rains fall soft upon your fields and, until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand.
A young Irishman sat at a pub in the New World drinking beer and conversin’ with the barkeep. Another comes in and sits besides him. He says how you do and hears the lilt and says you be Irish? Yes I am. The first man yells barkeep give us another round and one for my friend here he’s from the mother country as well. The second man asks-so where in the old country ye from. Dublin responds the first. Dublin you say – so am I and the second man hollers barkeep bring us another round and a shot of your best Irish Whiskey for me and my friend here. Afterwards the first man asks from where in Dublin and the second man responds with the street and the first man says well I’ll be – so am I and yells barkeep another pair of beers and Irish Whiskey for the pair of us. The phone behind the bar rings and the barkeep answers it. The owner of the pub asks – how is business. The barkeep responds – not too bad – The O’Malley twins are here getting drunk again.
An Irishman is the only man in the world who will step over the bodies of a dozen naked women to get to a bottle of stout.
His wife had been killed in an accident and the police were questioning Finnegan.
“Did she say anything before she died?” asked the sergeant.
“She spoke without interruption for about forty years,” said the Irishman.
Mrs. Pete Monaghan came into the newsroom to pay for her husband’s obiturary. She was told by the kindly newsman that it was a dollar a word and he remembered Pete and wasn’t it too bad about him passing away. She thanked him for his kind words and bemoaned the fact that she only had two dollars. But she wrote out the obituary, “Pete died.” The newsman said he thought old Pete deserved more and he’d give her three more words at no charge. Mrs. Pete Monaghan thanked him and rewrote the obituary: “Pete died. Boat for sale”
The Irish are a fair people – they never speak well of one another
A young Irish girl goes into her priest on Saturday morning for confession.
“Father, forgive me for I have Thinned.”
“Yes, I went out with me boyfriend Friday night. He held me hand twice, kissed me three times, and made love to me two times.”
“Daughter! I want you to go straight home, squeeze seven lemons into a glass, and drink it straight down.”
“Will that wash away me Thin?”
“No, but it will get the silly smile off your face.”
God invented whiskey to keep the Irish from ruling the world.
Irishman, Englishman and a German are caught in Saudi Arabia drinking.
“Under Saudi law you are sentenced to 30 lashes then deported. Before you begin you are entitled to something on you back, what would you like?” said the prison guard to the Englishman just before lashing him. The English man, being a bit of a cricket fan, asked for linseed oil. When they lashed him on a post and let him go to catch his flight back to London he groaned and crawled to the airport. Next came the German.
“Under Saudi law you are sentenced to 30 lashes then deported. Before you begin you are entitled to something on you back, what would you like?” said the prison guard “Nothing” said the German and, after receiving his lashes spat on the ground, called the prison guards Schisers and started off towards the airport.
The guards then came to the Irishman. “Under Saudi law you are sentenced to 30 lashes then deported. Before you begin you are entitled to something on you back, what would you like?” “Oh”, replied the Irishman, “I’ll take the German”.
Concerning bagpipes: The Irish invented them and gave them to the Scots as a joke, and the Scots haven’t seen the joke yet.
Three irishmen, drunk as can be come staggering down the street singing Danny boy at the top of their lungs. they stopped in front of Flaherty’s house still singing.
After a few minutes the window flies open and Mrs. Flaherty yells out, why don’t you drunken sots go somewhere else. are you Mrs. Flaherty? Asks one of the drunks. you know dam well I am she says.
Well can you tell us which one of us is your husband so the other two of us can go home.
There was this guy who was 1/2 Irish, 1/2 Scottish, he wanted a drink but he couldn’t bring himself to buy one.
A fellow is talking to his Irish buddy ad says,” I gotta stop drinking that Irish whisky” “how come?” asked his friend. “Because every Saturday night I go out and drink a fifth of the stuff, come home, make mad passionate love to the wife, wake up Sunday morning and go to church.” “What’s wrong with that?” the Irishman asks. “a lot of good Irishman go out on saturday night, drink a fifth of good Irish whisky, come home do the wife, and go to mass on Sunday” ” I know” said his friend, “but I’m Jewish.
Have you heard about the Irish boomerang? It doesn’t come back, it just sings songs about how much it wants to.
Pat was lying on his deathbed, moaning and carrying on. “Mike,” he says, “I know I’m a goner.”
“Oh, Paddy, have faith, ye still have years ahead uv yuh.”
“No, Mick, I’m finished an’ you’ve been such a great friend, there’s one thing I’d like yuh to do when I’m gone.”
Ahh, Paddy, I’ll do anything you ask, I swear it to the Saints and the Holy Mother.”
“Well, dear friend, I have been saving a jug of fine whiskey that my brother sent me from Cashel some eight years ago, and I would like you to pour it on me grave when I’m buried.”
Mike sits silently for a long time and Pat asks again, “will you o that for yer oldest friend, Mike?”
Mike draws a big breath and says, “Ye know I will Pat, but would ye mind if I filter it through me kidneys first?’
Bricks and mortar make a house, but the laughter of children makes a home.
Management is not responsible for duplicates from previous dailies. The editor is somewhat senile.
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