From the Rowdies in the Back of the Bus

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Think some people have too much time on their hands? They've got nothing on this guy.

(Link fixed. Thanks for the heads-up, Harvey!)
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In Anticipation of St. Patrick's Day:

The Man Who Orders Three Beers

An Irishman by the name of Paul McLean moves into a tiny hamlet in County Kerry, walks into the pub and promptly orders three beers. The bartender raises his eyebrows, but serves the man three beers, which he drinks quietly at a table, alone. An hour later, the man has finished the three beers and orders three more. This happens yet again.

The next evening the man again orders and drinks three beers at a time, several times.

Soon the entire town is whispering about the Man Who Orders Three Beers.

Finally, a week later, the bartender broaches the subject on behalf of the town.

"I don't mean to pry, but folks around here are wondering why you always order three beers."

"'Tis odd, isn't it?" the man replies. "You see, I have two brothers, and one went to America, and the other to Australia. We promised each other that we would always order an extra two beers whenever we drank as a way of keeping up the family bond."

The bartender and the whole town was pleased with this answer, and soon the Man Who Orders Three Beers became a local celebrity and source of pride to the hamlet, even to the extent that out-of-towners would come to watch him drink.

Then, one day, the man comes in and orders only two beers. The bartender pours them with a heavy heart. This continues for the rest of the evening -- he orders only two beers. Word flies around town. Prayers are offered for the soul of one of the brothers.

The next day, the bartender says to the man, "Folks around here, me first of all, want to offer condolences to you for the death of your brother. You know -- the two beers and all..."

The man ponders this for a moment, then replies, "You'll be happy to hear that my two brothers are alive and well. It's just that I, meself, have decided to give up drinking for Lent."
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Into a Belfast pub comes Paddy Murphy, looking like he's just been run over by a train. His arm is in a sling, his nose is broken, his face is cut and bruised, and he's walking with a limp.

"What happened to you?" asks Sean, the bartender.

"Jamie O'Connor and me had a fight," says Paddy.

"That little sod, O'Connor," says Sean. "He couldn't do that to you. He must have had something in his hand."

"That he did," said Paddy, "a shovel is what he had, and a terrible lickin' he gave me with it."

"Well," says Sean, "you should have defended yourself. Didn't you have something in your hand?"

"That I did," said Paddy. "Mrs. O'Connor's breast, and a thing of beauty it was, but useless in a fight."
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Three Irishmen, Paddy, Sean, and Seamus, were stumbling home from the pub late one night, and found themselves on the road which led past the old graveyard.

"Come have a look over here," says Paddy. "It's Michael O'Grady's grave, God bless his soul. He lived to the ripe old age of 87."

"That's nothing," says Sean. "Here's one named Patrick O'Toole. It says here that he was 94 when he died."

Just then, Seamus yells out. "Good God, here's a fella that got to be 145!"

"What was his name?" asks Paddy.

Seamus stumbles around a bit, awkwardly lights a match to see what else is written on the marker, and exclaims, "Miles, from Dublin."
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An Irishman who had a little too much to drink is driving home from the city one night and, of course, his car is weaving violently all over the road. A cop pulls him over. "So," says the cop to the driver, "where have ya been?"

"Why, I've been to the pub, of course," slurs the drunk.

"Well," says the cop, "it looks like you've had quite a few to drink this evening."

"I did all right," the drunk says, with a smile.

"Did ya know," says the cop, standing straight and folding his arms across his chest, "that a few intersections back, your wife fell our of your car?"

"Oh, thank Heavens," said the Irishman. "For a minute there, I thought I'd gone deaf."
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Brenda O'Malley is home making dinner, as usual, when Tim Finnegan arrives at her door.

"Brenda, may I come in?" he asks. "I've somethin' to tell ya."

"Of course you can come in, you're always welcome, Tim. But where's my husband?"

"That's what I'm here to be tellin' ya, Brenda. There was an accident down at the Guinness brewery..."

"Oh, God, no!" cries Brenda. "Please don't tell me..."

"I must, Brenda. Your husband Seamus is dead and gone. I'm sorry."

Finally, she looked up at Tim. "How did it happen, Tim?"

"It was terrible, Brenda. He fell into a vat of Guinness stout and drowned."

"Oh, my dear Jesus! But you must tell me true, Tim. Did he at least go quickly?"

"Well, no, Brenda...no. Fact is, he got out three times to pee."
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A drunk staggers into a Catholic church, enters a confessional box, sits down, but says nothing. The priest coughs a few times to get his attention, but the drunk just sits there. Finally, the priest pounds three times on the wall.

The drunk mumbles, "Ain't no use knockin'. There's no paper on this side, either."
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