Paddy had been
drinking at his local Dublin pub all day and most of the night
celebrating St Patrick's Day. 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. He 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,
'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 door frame. 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.
'Bi'Jesus.... I'm fockin' focked,'
he says.
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 fockin' way'. 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
'Fock it' and falls 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
fockin' pi**ed. But how'd you know?'
'Mick phoned . .. . you left your
wheelchair at the pub.'