Paddy had been drinking at his local Dublinpub 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' pissed. But how'd you know?'
'Mick phoned . . . you left your wheelchair at the pub.'