The Irishman (A Shaggy Paddy)

Jo Ann Thomas sent this evil little tale of the dangers of drink.

Paddy had been drinking at his local Dublin pub all day and most of the night celebrating. Mick, the bartender says, “You’ll not be drinking anymore tonight, Paddy!”

Paddy replies “OK, Mick, I’ll be on my way, then.”

Paddy spins around on his stool and steps off and falls flat on his face. “Shoite,” he says and pulls himself up by the stool and dusts himself off.

He takes a step towards the door and falls flat on his face again.

“Shoite, Shoite!” He looks to the doorway and thinks to himself that if he can just get to the door and some fresh air he’ll be fine. He belly crawls to the door and shimmies up to the doorframe. He sticks his head outside and takes a deep breath of fresh air, feels much better and takes a step out onto the sidewalk and falls flat on his face.

“By Jove… I’m smashed,” he says to himself. He can see his house just a few doors down, and crawls to the door, hauls himself up the door frame, opens the door and shimmies inside. He takes a look up the stairs and says, “No way.” So, he crawls up the stairs to his bedroom door and says, “I can make it to the bed.” He takes a step into the room and falls flat on his face.

He says, “Dang it” and ultimately climbs into bed.

The next morning, his wife, Jess, comes into the room carrying a cup of coffee and says, “Get up, Paddy. Did you have a bit to drink last night?”

Paddy says, “I did Jess. I was smashed. But, how’d you know?”

“Mick phoned. . . You left your wheelchair at the pub.”

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