A tourist walks into a bar.

He asks for an Irishman named Seamus. The bartender points to an old man in the back, staring out the window and nursing a pint.

The tourist takes a seat next to Seamus. “Is it true, what they say about you?” He offers the old man a fresh pint.

Seamus smiles at the man, then curls back up into a scowl. “Me bucko,” he says, “Do ye see that fence out there? On O’Mally’s farm?”

The tourist nods.

“That fence,” Seamus continues, “had to completely encircle 48 acres of land. I built it all by meself, with only a hammer and me bare hands. All through the summer and all through the winter, I worked on that damn fence. Never asked for a penny in return, either. But they don’t call me ‘Seamus the fence builder.'”

Seamus gulps his pint, and wipes the foam off his beard. “Do you see that football, boyo? On the mantle?”

The tourist nods.

“Forty years ago, I kicked that ball right into Liverpool’s net. Won the game for our entire team. It was the proudest moment in Irish football history. But they don’t call me ‘Seamus the Footballer.'”

Seamus points to the floor. “You see that bear-skin rug?”

The tourist nods, again.

“If you look closely, you can still see where I stabbed ‘im with a bottle opener. Tracked that monster for thirty days and thirty nights all through the countryside. He had me dead to rights near the end, but ol’ Seamus got the last laugh. But aye… They don’t call me ‘Seamus the bear-hunter.’ No…”

Seamus stands up, and stares out the window. “But you fuck one goat…”

submitted by /u/mandaloredash
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