Oh.
Man, they need to put a “gender” category on the profiles…
Still flattering though. Hope Sqrl isn’t offended by the mistake…
Cool! Now, MP3? 
WOOHOO! Yet another poster who confused me with a woman. 
That is ok. I am glad that you liked this thread. Now you have to show off for us so we can all gawk.
HUGS!
Sqrl
For Kilt-wearin man’s edification …Irish jokes (being of Scotch extraction)
Two Irishmen are sitting in a small town bar, where Mick bragged to Sean: “You know, I had me every woman in this town, except of course,me mother and me sister.”
“Well,” Sean replied, “between you and me, we got 'em all.”
Mahoney said to his friend McFadden, “I haven’t been feelin’ meself lately!”
'Tis a good thing, too-that was a nasty habit you had!" responded McFadden.
An Irishman who had a little too much to drink is driving home from the city one night and, of course, his car is weaving violently all over the road.
A cop pulls him over. “So,” says the cop to the driver, “where have you been?”
“Why, I’ve been to the pub of course,” slurs the drunk. “Well,” says the cop, “it looks like you’ve had quite a few to drink this
evening”.
“I did all right,” the drunk says with a mile. “Did you know,” says the cop, standing straight and folding his arms across his chest, “that a few intersections back, your wife fell out of your car?”
“Oh, thank heavens,” sighs the drunk. “For a minute there, I thought I’d gone deaf.”
Brenda O’Malley is home making dinner, as usual, when Tim Finnegan arrives at her door. “Brenda, may I come in?” he asks. “I’ve somethin’ to tell ya.”
“Of course you can come in, you’re always welcome, Tim. But where’s my husband?”
“That’s what I’m here to be tellin’ ya, Brenda. There was an accident down at the Guiness brewery…”
“Oh, God no!” cries Brenda. “Please don’t tell me…” “I must, Brenda. Your husband Shamus is dead and gone. I’m sorry.” Finally, she looked up at Tim. “How did it happen, Tim?” “It was terrible, Brenda. He fell into a vat of Guiness Stout and drowned.”
“Oh my dear Jesus! But you must tell
me true, Tim. Did he at least go quickly?” “Well, no Brenda… no.”
“No?” “Fact is, he got out three times to pee.”
O
vidi vici veni!
Good stuff - I’m at least as Irish as I am Scottish, but I love the jokes…
Here’s a Scottish one…
What’s the difference between a Highlander and Mick Jagger?
Mick Jagger says “Hey, You, Get off’a my cloud!”
A Highlander says “Hey, MacLeod, Get off’a my ewe!!!”
Here is a poem written by a friend of mine, who posted as Lord Morgan here on the SDMB…
THE TALE OF McMORRIN
-or-
Merry Widow's Delight
By Morgan Bloodaxe (Sam Smith)
This is the Tale of McMorrin,
whose fortune was lost in the war, and
lacking money for plaid, he spent what he had
to purchase an extra-large sporran.
Now, regimentally clad, he wasn't half bad,
and the fair ladies' hearts were set pounding.
But the gents were aghast at the shadow he cast,
which, even at noon, was astounding.
He made churchmen and husbands uneasy,
so, in an honest effort to please, he
wore his sporran just right, at the most modest height,
which was somewhere down under his kneesies.
Yes, this is the Tale of McMorrin,
a man lucky the day of his bornin',
For the Fates gave him then somewhat more than most men,
and ever since then he'd been growin'.
Now, with poverty comes great dispair;
almost more than McMorrin could bear.
But he girded his loins, for though lacking in coins,
he still had some fine jewels there.
Then he called on the Widow Felicity,
who was as merry as a widow could wish to be.
And after six nights of carnal delights,
he put her in charge of publicity.
Soon all the merry young widows, adorin',
were heaping praise on the peerless McMorrin--
and more gold in his purse than a dry man has thirst,
for it's that kind of fame that makes Fortune.
So the years flickered past, all a-fleeting.
For McMorrin all good years, exceeding.
For the Scotsman had found Endless Wealth and Reknown
are merely a matter of breeding.
Then, to the Tale of McMorrin, an ending:
He died. Elderly, wealthy, and grinning.
Yes, he died in the night with his pride at its' height,
and broke three ladies' hearts beyond mending.
At his funeral, the tears fell in showers,
and he lay in a forest of flowers.
All the widows so greieved, they could hardly believe
even Death could have toppled his tower!
On his coffin of marble and slate,
the Great McMorrin was sculptured in state.
Then they dug him right down to six feet under ground,
and, on second thought, took him to eight...
Now with the loss of the peerless McMorrin,
those merry widows just aren't, anymore, and
they keep watch at his grave, and they endlessly pray
a Ressurection would somehow restore him.
(How sad!)
But, ladies! Put an ending to all your distress!
A modest secret I'm bound to confess:
I'm like my Uncle McMorrin (only a little bit more), and
....I'm sure we can work out the rest!