Irish Jokes Collection 1

A big-city lawyer from Dublin went pheasant hunting in rural County Kerry. He shot and dropped a bird, but it fell into a local farmer's field on the other side of a low stone wall. As the lawyer climbed over the fence to retrieve his game, an elderly Irish farmer rode up on an ancient tractor and asked him what he was doing on private land. The lawyer puffed out his chest, straightened his silk tie, and said, 'I am one of the top senior barristers in the Republic of Ireland, and that is my pheasant! If you attempt to stop me from taking what is rightfully mine, I will bring the full legal weight of the Dublin High Court down upon your head!' The old farmer smiled serenely, leaned on his wooden walking stick, and said, 'Ah, calm yourself now, sir. We don't bother with expensive lawyers or fancy courtrooms down here in Kerry. Whenever two men have a dispute over property, we settle it the traditional way with the Three-Kick Rule.' The lawyer looked puzzled. 'And what on earth is the Three-Kick Rule?' 'Well,' explained the farmer, 'first I kick you three times as hard as I can in any spot I choose. Then you kick me three times as hard as you can in any spot you choose. We keep alternating until one of us gives up, and whoever is left standing gets the pheasant. It's quick, free, and completely fair.' The lawyer looked at the frail, elderly farmer, then looked at his heavy leather dress shoes, and figured he could easily withstand whatever the old man could dish out before delivering three devastating kicks of his own to claim his bird. 'Very well,' said the lawyer. 'I agree to the Three-Kick Rule.' The old farmer slowly stepped down off his tractor, walked right up to the lawyer, and delivered a swift, brutal kick straight into the barrister's shins. As the lawyer gasped in pain, the farmer followed up with a sharp kick to the midsection, and finished off with a heavy boot right to the groin. The lawyer collapsed onto the soft turf, groaning and clutching himself in agony for nearly ten minutes. Finally, using all his strength, the barrister hauled himself up onto his knees, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and gasped, 'Alright... you old devil... now... now it is my turn!' The old farmer took a step back, tipped his tweed cap, and said, 'Ah, don't worry about it, lad. You can keep the pheasant.'

Seamus walked into his local pub in Ballymote on a stormy Tuesday evening, looking utterly defeated. He sat down at the dark oak counter, sighed heavily, and ordered a pint of stout from the bartender, Mick. Mick poured the perfect pint with a thick creamy head, set it down in front of Seamus, and went back to polishing glasses at the far end of the bar. Before Seamus could take his first sip, he felt an urgent call of nature. Knowing that leaving his fresh pint unattended in a pub full of thirsty locals was a risky proposition, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small piece of paper and a pen, and wrote: 'I spat in this pint.' He tucked the note carefully under the base of the glass and headed off to the restroom, confident that his drink was safe. Five minutes later, Seamus returned to his stool. His glass was sitting exactly where he had left it, completely full and untouched. He chuckled to himself, proud of his clever Irish ingenuity. However, as he picked up the pint to finally take a generous gulp, he noticed someone had written a second line on the bottom of his note. He turned the slip of paper over, and written below his own handwriting in bold red ink were the words: 'So did I.'

Paddy had been trying to pass his driving test in Cork city for nearly fifteen years. Every single examiner in the county knew his name and dreaded the moment Paddy was assigned to their calendar. Finally, on his twelfth attempt, an examiner named Mr. Higgins was tasked with taking Paddy out on the road. Things went smoothly for the first ten minutes until they approached a major four-way intersection. The traffic light turned bright red, but Paddy pressed down hard on the accelerator, roaring straight through the intersection without even looking left or right. Mr. Higgins clutched his clipboard in utter terror, his heart pounding in his chest. 'Paddy! What in God's name are you doing?! You just ran a solid red light!' Paddy smiled calmly and patted the examiner's arm. 'Ah, don't fret yourself, sir! My brother Murty drives like this all the time, and he's one of the best drivers in all of Munster!' A few minutes later, they were approaching another busy junction. The light was glowing a clear, bright green. Suddenly, Paddy slammed his feet onto the brake pedal, bringing the car to a screeching, violent halt right before the line. Cars behind them swerved and honked frantically. Mr. Higgins slammed his hands against the dashboard, breathless with panic. 'Paddy! Are you completely mad?! The light was green! Why on earth did you stop?!' Paddy leaned over, peered nervously down both side streets, and whispered, 'Are you crazy, man? Murty might be coming down the other road!'

Father Thomas was driving back to his rectory along a winding county road in Galway late on a Saturday night. It had been raining heavily, and his ancient motor vehicle was wobbling slightly across the center line. Behind him, a local police cruiser spotted the erratic driving, flipped on its blue lights, and pulled the priest over to the side of the road. Garda Officer Murphy stepped up to the driver's side window, shone his flashlight inside, and smelled a very strong aroma of red wine drifting from the interior. He also noticed a large brown glass jug sitting on the front passenger seat. 'Good evening, Father,' said Officer Murphy respectfully. 'Have you been drinking tonight?' Father Thomas placed a hand over his heart, looking innocent. 'Bless you, Officer, not a single drop! I swear to you on the Holy Scriptures, I haven't touched a bit of alcohol all evening.' Officer Murphy gestured toward the seat. 'Then what is in that large glass jug sitting right next to you?' 'Ah, that is just pure, blessed water, my son,' the priest replied smoothly. Officer Murphy reached in, unscrewed the cap, took a quick whiff, and took a tiny sip. He sputtered, turned to the priest, and exclaimed, 'Father, this isn't water! This is vintage red wine!' Father Thomas gasped, looked up toward the night sky, clasped his hands together in pure astonishment, and cried, 'Praise the Almighty! Sweet Lord Jesus, He’s done it again!'