One of the most challenging things about writing a novel about Ireland and the Irish is making sure you insert plenty of the great Celtic sense of humor. Why is it challenging?
Because the Irish are profane. Their minds are dirtier than anyone I’ve ever known (perhaps excepting Australians). I don’t know if it’s a form of retribution for the constrictions of Catholic religion for all those centuries or if Irish folks are just born with a dirtier sense of humor than other cultures. In Ireland, the “F” word is a favorite adjective, verb, and noun all at the same time.
I must admit I share in this predilection toward vulgarity. My slogan used to be, “A dirty mind is a joy forever.” But I try. Oh God, how I try.
A leprechaun and his pal go to a convent. The leprechaun says to the Mother Superior, “Have you any nuns in your convent my size?”
The Mother Superior says kindly, “No, little man. I doubt there are any nuns in all of Ireland who are your size.
He turns to his pal. “See, I told you they were penguins.”
Here’s one more—well, actually two. One with an Irish twist.
What does an agnostic, dyslexic insomniac do?
Stays up all night and wonders if there is a dog.
What does an Irish, agnostic, dyslexic insomniac do?
Stays up all night and worries if there was a dog, if he’d be Protestant or Catholic.
More next time.