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Sunday, March 18, 2018

Greetings Laff Lovers,

They say that on St. Patty's Day, everybody's Irish. More likely on St. Patty's Day everybody's drunk, which is not much of a criteria to distinguish anybody from the average 'Mick' anyway.

Since yesterday was St. Patrick's Day I'm guessing a significant portion of Laff-a-Day readers are hung over. And by noon today I bet a significant portion of THOSE will be heading to the bars to do it all over again. A lot of towns have their little parades on the Sunday closest to St. Patrick's Day, like mine does, which is today, and why waste another opportunity to get wasted?

So as you're heading out to your favorite Irish Temple to celebrate the luck o' the Irish, and the conversion of all those tree-huggin', goat-fucking, hippy pagans to Christianity, I've put together a few good-natured, Irish blessings. Feel free to take these to the bar with you and impress the heck out of your friends.

...May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face.
And rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.

So here's my personal wish for you potato-eating Irish fucks out there:

...May your redheaded Rose cause your johnson to rise.
May the wind that you break be silent, yet deadly.
May a redheaded babe sit anxiously on your face.
And may your pint of Guinness never run dry.
And when you're done playing taps on my meat-whistle,
May you keep your God-damn drunken ass out of jail!



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"In a study, scientists report that drinking beer can be good for your liver. I'm sorry, did I say 'scientists'?
I meant Irish people." --Tina Fey

Into the local pub comes Paddy Murphy, looking like he'd 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'Conner and me had a fight," says Paddy.

"That little shit, O'Conner?" says Sean, "He couldn't do that to you, he must have had something in his hand."

"That he did," says 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'Conner's breast, and a thing of beauty it was, but useless in a fight."

There was this guy who was half Irish, half Scottish. He wanted a drink, but he couldn't bring himself to pay for one!


Friday Night is very much love-night for the Irish man. Arriving back from the pub, having partaken of the traditional Irish aphrodisiac - 12 pints Guinness, and some fish and chips, his mind set on one thing - LOVE! Or as he says himself "the ride." His lust, at fever pitch, after the sensuous excitement of a hard night's dominoes, he approaches his beloved wife, enticing her with gentle words of passion - "Any chance of me hole then love?" The good lady in question perhaps over excited by the erotic smell of Guinness or the sensuous vision of chips sticking to his chin, is at first somewhat reluctant. This coy reluctance is expressed with the flirtatious "Would ye ever fuck off!"

Foreplay is very important indeed. This basically consists of the male, whipping off his slightly soiled Y fronts provocatively at his wife, that usually land skid-mark side down, as he approaches the bed gyrating with one hand on his hip and the other on the back of his head, singing the ancient Gaelic fertility chant "Here we go, here we go, here we go" Upon reaching the bed he comments proudly on this rampant 8 incher. This is a classic example of alcohol induced double vision.

After 12 pints, sometimes the man's old Willie Winkie is a trifle reluctant to extend itself (literally). Impotence is very much a blow to the man's self esteem and the wife has to be very tactful. She will offer gentle and sensitive words of encouragement such as "Ye useless bastard, ye" or possibly "It never happens to the Milkman". Oral sex is a great favorite of the Irishman. He approaches his wife with a cheeky invitation, "How'd ye like to put your teeth round dis?" The woman nods willingly and points suggestively to her falsies smiling happily in a bedside tumbler. "Go on then", she says "but don't disturb me".

Eventually the moment comes to consummate their tender love. Again alcohol induced double vision is an important factor as the man decides which of his willies to use for penetration. Sometimes in his excitement as he moves into his position he may suffer from severe premature ejaculation. A phenomenon he explains to his wife using the poetic phrase "Oh fuck, I've shot me load." If this does occur it is essential he makes up for disappointing his wife by uttering tender and loving compliments such as, perhaps, informing her she's the nicest woman he's ever come across. An imaginative lover, the Irishman, possibly having read that the woman likes to be spoken dirty to, says such things as "shite, arsehole". The woman is speechless. The man is now thrusting away, his mind a kaleidoscope of jumbled erotic thoughts. The woman wonders if they should repaint the ceiling. Sometimes she utters a word of encouragement such as "Are you sure it's in?" Given his level sexual expertise the Irishman's ideal partner should be a versatile lover specializing in the faked orgasm. This takes the form of a breathless shout "Ooyah, ooyah, Big Boy." Eventually it's all over. The man roles over, falls asleep and commences snoring like a pig. There's no one in the world performs quite like an Irishman - veritable prince in the kingdom of sex.