Not Quite Gone
Here's a return joke that's been going round in an email:
>Paddy had been drinking at his local Dublin pub all day and most of the
>night mourning Liverpool's draw with Basel. 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. He 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 and
>shimmies 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' psssed. But how'd you know?"
>"Mick called. You left your wheelchair at the pub."