Posted 3/13/13 (Wed)
Good morn’ to ya laddy!
Tis the week that the Irish celebrate! Tis the holiday that I look forward to the most all year, St. Patrick’s Day. I suppose you guessed that Meyer is not an Irish name. I think I’m a mix of German, Scottish, a touch of English, and a bit of Jack Daniels. But I married a Murphy and that entitles me to be Irish when I feel the urge.
Grandpa Jack always made a point to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Corned beef and cabbage was a tradition. Green beer at the Buckskin was the norm. Even in the nursing home, Jack couldn’t be denied his Irish heritage. He called down to the bar and ordered a keg brought up to Hilltop Home of Comfort, along with a pitcher and green food dye! Guess it upset a little of the help, but the Irish tend to do that occasionally.
Which reminds of an Irish story.
Seems O’Kelley was headed home from the pub one fine afternoon. He had been celebrating a bit long and was pretty disheveled. He had lipstick smeared on his face. His eyes were bloodshot. Out of his torn jacket pocket, a pint of Jamison whiskey was sticking. He was pretty wobbly as he boarded the train home and fell into a seat next to a priest.
Trying his best to not attract attention, he picked up a paper and began reading. Then he turned to the priest and asks, “What causes arthritis?”
The priest turns a stern eye to him and says absolutely, “Too much alcohol, consorting with wild women, and leading a life of sin and blasphemy!”
“I’ll be damned,” O’Kelley mutters and goes back to reading.
The priest begins to feel that maybe he shouldn’t have been so harsh. Arthritis can be a painful disease and perhaps the man was drinking to ease his life.
“I’m sorry,” the priest relates to O’Kelley, “I shouldn’t have been so quick to condemn you. How long have you had arthritis?”
“Oh, I don’t,” the inebriated O’Kelley replies, “It says here the Pope is suffering from it!”
That brings me to one more quick story. I’ve maybe told you before.
Paddy worked at the brewery. As his father did, and his father before him.
One day, his best friend Mike, comes to Paddy’s house with bad news for his wife.
“Mrs. O’Riley, I have some terrible news. Paddy fell into the large vat of Guinness and drowned this morning.”
Sobbing, Mrs. O’Riley inquires, “Did he suffer?”
“I don’t think so,” Mike replies. “He got out three times to pee!”
“May you always have walls for the wind, a roof for the rain, tea beside the fire, laughter to cheer you, those you love near you, and all your heart might desire.”
Erin Go Bragh,