Now *that *wasn’t funny at all. You’re striking out in this thread.
mmm
Heck, I’m an Irish American whose ancestors were famine immigrants, and I thought it was funny.
Are you sure you’re Irish?:dubious:
Q. What’s the difference between Mick Jagger and a Scottish sheep farmer?
A. Mick Jagger says "hey you, get off of my cloud. The Scottish sheep farmer says “hey McLeod, get off of my ewe!”
I would just read select passages from the notes at the beginning of each chapter in Frank Herbert’s downer of a sci-fi novel White Plague
Sure to get some laughs!
(at least it won’t require a wiki link to explain it)
Ooh, I got a good one:
Q. What’s the difference between Scotland and Ireland?
A. WHAT THE FOOKIN HELL KINDA QUESTION IS THAT! Fookin hell these Yanks.
When my gf was in Ireland a few years ago, a young, clean cut looking kid asked if she was looking for “some good crack”. She was a bit shocked. Then she found out he meant craic.
Last night we went to see a friend’s Irish band. Guitar, pipes, drums, mandolin, fiddle, and bass, and very authentic. Another friend was tweaking the soundboard. I told him he had the mix pretty good, except you couldn’t hear the fiddle at all. He said that was his goal. She sucks, so he had her in her monitor and that was it. (She’s a friend of the piper)
I thought Mick Jagger said, ‘Hey Hugh! Get off of McCloud!’
Thanks for the jokes, all. My wife is set to be mortified tonight! 
Here’s another one I like (tho not necessarily Irish):
O’Leary is driving along when a patrolman stops him and says, “Don’t you realize Ms. O’Leary fell out of the car 5 miles back?”
“Praise the Lord!”, says O’Leary. “I thought I was going deaf!”
Yeah - we aren’t really an “Irish” band, but enough of the fiddle tunes we play - reels/jigs/hornpipes - could pass, especially to an audience under the influence. Add in a few shouters like Wild Rover, Streams of Whiskey, and we’ll pass muster.
And no need to mix down our fiddle. As the fill-in bassist, I fully expect to be the weak link. So I’ll just play louder and slap more! 
An Irishman walks into a bar in Chicago, sits by himself and orders three beers. The bartender says, “Wouldn’t it be easier to order them one at a time?”
The Irishman says “Well, you see, I used to go out with my two brothers when I was a young man. But now I’ve moved to Chicago, my brother Luke is in Boston, and my other brother Colin is back home in Dublin. But having three beers reminds me of our times together.”
“Aw, that’s awesome” says the bartender, and gives him three beers.
This goes on for a while until one day the man comes in and orders two beers. The bartender is concerned and asks “Hey I hope your brothers are both OK.”
“Oh they’re fine. I’ve just given up the drink for lent!”
At an Irish wedding the priest asks “Would all the married men here raise their hands.”
They do. Then the priest says “I would like you all to go to the person who has always been there for you, who has been your rock and your support, and give them a hug.”
The poor bartender was nearly crushed to death.
The difference between lace curtain Irish and shanty Irish? The former take the dishes out of the sink before pissing in it.
Now THIS one made me laugh out loud!
If you know Galway Bay, you might try theClancy Brothers parody version.
*Maybe someday, I’ll go back again to Ireland
An my dear old wife would pass away
She nearly has my heart broke with her naggin
She’s got a mouth as big as Galway Bay
See her drinkin 16 pints of Pabst Blue Ribbon
And then she can walk home without a sway
If the sea were beer instead of salty water
She would live and die in Galway Bay*
Heard this (and seen it in print) as a Jewish Mother joke. Just sayin’.
Carry on.
An Irish guy went fishing one weekend, fell off his boat and drowned. His widow agonized over the writing of the obituary, trying to figure out the best way to word it, and ended up with four pages of a lovely, touching eulogy. She took it to the newspaper office and gave it to the clerk. “This is beautiful, Mrs. O’Sullivan, but it may be somewhat pricey. An obit is a dollar per word… how much money do ya have?” She shook her head sadly. “I have but three dollars.” " I’ll make you a deal, I’ll let ya have five words for that."
She thought for a moment, took a piece of paper, wrote something on it, then handed him the five word obituary:
Sully died. Boat for sale.
Long ago, the New York Post held a St Patricks Day contest, offering a $1,000 cash prize for the filthiest limerick in the world. They got all sorts of entries: old chestnuts, cringeworthy doggerel, even some impressive efforts by well-known poets.
But when St. Patrick’s Day came, they awarded the prize to one Mrs. Anne O’Leary, of Killarney, Ireland–whose limerick, they were ashamed to admit, was so filthy that they couldn’t print it.
Some years later, an intrepid New York Times reporter was fascinated by this story. He begged and begged his editor to let him do a feature story on Mrs. O’Leary, and received permission to investigate. So he caught a taxi straight to La Guardia, flew to London, from there took a commuter flight to Dublin, and boarded a train to Killarney.
Once he got there, it took him nearly two full days to track down the O’Leary farm, eight miles outside of town. He caught a ride in a farmer’s wagon next to a couple of sheep.
Arriving at last, he knocked on the door. He didn’t know what to expect–and he certainly didn’t expect the door to be opened by an adorably sweet, grandmotherly figure, white hair tinged with the yellow of Irish hair gone old.
“Good morning,” she said. “Can I help you?”
“I’m–I’m looking for Mrs. O’Leary,” he said. “Is that you?”
She nodded, so he explained who he was, and why he was there. “And I’d like to talk to you about the contest–but first, I’m dying to know, do you still remember the limerick that you wrote for the contest?”
“Oh, aye,” she said, “But I can’t possibly say it. It’s far too filthy.”
“Please!” he begged. “I’ve traveled all this way!” They went back and forth, and finally she sighed.
“Here’s what I’ll do,” she offered. “I’ll say the parts of it I can, but the really filthy parts, I’ll just hum.”
“Fine, fine!” the reporter agreed. So she began.
“Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm
Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm.
Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm,
hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm,
Hmm hmm in a river of shit.”
It’s an Irish joke ye be wantin’?
As a Royals fan, I direct you to the pitching of Sean O’Sullivan, who managed to play in 7 major league seasons with a career ERA of 6. A cruel joke, if he was on your team, but a joke no less.
I’m not even sure why but that made my laugh my ass off 
An Irish beggar comes up to an Englishman and says “Please sir, can you spare a little cash? My wife is sick at home and we have run out of her expensive medicine, my four kids at home have no food and they are so hungry. Please sir anything would help.”
The Englishman says" What kind of fool do you think I am? You would spend anything I give you on drink."
The beggar says" Oh no sir, I’ve already got drinking money"