This was supposed to be one I couldn’t tell my mother, but she liked it.
A travelling Saleswoman (don’t ask me, I didn’t make it up) is travelling in the depths of rural Ireland. Lisburn, probably. She stops at a lonely farm. Her car needs repaired and she is compelled to spend the night at the same lonely farm, where there are two muscular farmers and only one bed. The farmers are called Mick and Pat. There only are two names for males in Ireland.
So the travelling saleswoman says: “I don’t feel absolutely safe in this bed with you two gentlemen, so if you’ll kindly equip yourselves with one of these each, I’ll sleep a bit more peaceably, when I can sleep at all.” “these” being objects made of thin rubber, which of course no-one on this list has ever heard of. So they do as she requires, and there is a fair amount of exercise, and a good time is had by all, and sleep, when it arrives, is deep and peaceful. In the morning the Saleswoman’s car is repaired, and she bids the farmers a distant farewell.
Two weeks later, Mick and Pat are working in the fields. Digging. (It’s Ireland, remember?)
Pat is thoughtful.
“Mick,” sez he, “Do you remember that sinful Protestant Woman?”
“I do indeed,” sez Mick.
“Mick,” sez he, “Do you mind them sinful appliances she had us wear?”
“I do, rightly,” sez Mick.
“Mick,” sez he, “tell, me now. Do you really care if that sinful Protestant woman gets pregnant?”
“Well, Pat,” sez his brother, “it comes to me now that I do not.”
“Me neither,” sez Pat. “Let’s take the damn things off!”
