Saturday, July 30, 2011

Limerick For Greg


So, in the town of Limerick, they have an annual contest for the best limerick. For five years straight, a man by the name of Seamus McMillian won.

The contest was held in the city hall, where only the contestant and the three judges were privy to the limerick itself. This way, no one would be able to figure out what the limerick was (I’m not sure why, that’s just the way the rules are).

After each contestant would recite their limerick, they would go across the street to the local pub, and when a winner was announced, everyone would celebrate and drink like crazy.

Anyways, McMillian recited his limerick and then went over to the pub to wait for the announcement that he had won for the sixth year. Several pints later, the judges came over and announced that Sister Mary McIntosh, the local nun had won the contest.

Now McMillian was completely floored by this – he was sure he had a clinch on the contest. As he was already full of Guinness and bravado, he marched over to the judges and demanded to know why he lost.

The judges looked at him and reiterated the rules. Protesting, he demanded to know what the winning limerick was. The Judges told him that they couldn’t reveal that. Finally, McMillan demanded to know where Sister Mary was. Against their better judgment, they directed him to the convent down the road.

McMillian stormed down to the convent, fully intent on discovering what the winning limerick was. Shoving open the door, McMillan yelled out for Sister Mary McIntosh. A few moments later, Sister Mary appeared.

“Yes my child. What is troubling you?” Sister Mary asked the inebriated man.

“Sister, I won the limerick contest five years in a row. I’ve always had the best limerick, no one’s been able to beat me. I’ve got to know what your limerick was.” McMillian demanded.

Sister Mary smiled and said “but my son, is that not against the rules?” McMillian nodded, but replied “Sister, I’ve got to know.”

After several minutes of browbeating and haranguing, McMillian broke Sister Mary down. “Alright my son, I’ll tell you my limerick, but we must go outside, as some of the language is not appropriate for this location.”

Walking outside, Sister Mary continued “we must cross the street, before I can tell you my limerick.” McMillian charged across the street, waiting for the nun to catch up.

Once she reached the other side of the street, McMillian started in on her, “Sister, we’ve crossed the street – what’s the limerick?”

Sister Mary held up a hand. “Now, my son, this limerick has some dirty words in it, so I must substitute the word ‘duh-duh’ for the foul language.”

Nodding his head impatiently, McMillian spun his hands, signaling her to get on with it.

Clearing her throat, Sister Mary recited her limerick:

“duh-duh duh-duh duh-duh,

duh-diddy duh-diddy duh-duh,

duh-duh duh-duh, duh-duh duh-duh,

as they fucked in a pile of shite.” 

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