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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' pissed.
But how'd
you know?"
"Mick
phoned, . . . You left your wheelchair at the pub."
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