St. Patrick’s Day: Or as the True Irishman Calls it: Amateur Hour

An Irishman is feeling unwell. His long-suffering wife demands that he go to the doctor and get himself sorted out once and for all. So he goes. The doctor gives him a good going over. He’s a bit of a mess. The doctors says, “Your liver is like a sandbag, Michael, and your kidneys are on holiday somewhere. Your eyesight is failing, and your heart skips more beats than a scratched record. Your skin is sallow, and your hair is limp. You’re a sorry sight overall, and if changes aren’t made, you’re a gone gosling.”

So Michael thinks about his predicament a bit, and rubs his nubbly chin, and says, “What’s the cause of all these maladies, doctor?”

“Michael, it’s alcohol, and alcohol alone that’s the root of all your troubles.”

“Thank Jayzuz, doctor. Now I can go home and tell my wife she’s been wrong all these years. She always claims it’s my fault.”