I count myself fortunate that my native tongue, English, is the main language of the internet. As an internet
writer, I have become fascinated by spelling, vocabulary and the meaning of the same word in different countries. The Irish always have a whimsical way with words as these pictures demonstrate.
Ladies, the poles are fitted for your safety. No dancing.
Two drunks are waiting at bus stop on O'Connell
Street Dublin. Eventually, a number 13 bus pulls up
and opens the door, one of the drunks leans inside and asks the bus driver:
'Will this bus take me to Temple Bar?' The bus driver shakes his head and says, 'No, I'm sorry.' At this the other drunk lurches inside, smiles, and slurs:
Take Notice And Get Fit While You Travel
When You Arrive - Buy a Ticket
Seen outside a Dublin pub - 'Ticket on sale upstairs', just the one apparently.
Mike and Jimmy Take a Bus Ride
Mike and Jimmy were walking home from town after a night of bar-hopping.
They had no money to get a taxi and were staggering all over the place when
they found themselves outside the bus depot on Danube Road. Mike had an idea. He said to Jimmy, "Go in there and steal a bus so we
can drive home and I'll stay out here and keep a watch for the police." So Jimmy went into the garage and was gone for about twenty minutes. Mike
was starting to wonder what was taking him so long. Eventually Mike stuck his head around the door and saw Jimmy running from
bus to bus and looking very worried. "Terry! What are you doing?" Mike asked. "I can't find a number 47 anywhere Mike," Jimmy replied. "The 47 is the
only bus that stops at our house." Mike rolled his eyes. "Ohhhh," he groaned, "How stupid can you get? It
doesn't need to be a 47 for us to get home!" He walked over to a bus. "Here,
we'll take this one," he said. "It's a number 25. It stops at the
roundabout. We can just get off there and walk the rest of the way!"
Nasty Case of Arthritis
A man flops down on a subway seat next to a priest. The man's
tie is stained, his face is smeared with red lipstick, and a half-empty bottle of gin is sticking out of his torn coat pocket. He opens a
newspaper and begins reading. After a few minutes the guy turns to the priest and asks, 'Say, Father, what causes arthritis?'
Loose living; cheap, wicked woman; too much alcohol; and contempt for
your fellow man, 'answers the priest.'
I'll be damned, 'the drunk mutters, returning to his paper. The priest, thinking about what he said, nudges the man and apologises.'
I'm very sorry. I didn't
be so harsh. How long have you had arthritis?' 'Oh, I don't
have it, Father. But it says here that the Pope does.'
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