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A lone wayfarer is backpacking through Ireland when it starts pouring rain. The only sign of civilization is a house on a hill.
He follows a fence up the hill to find that the house is a pub. He goes inside and orders a pint, wondering why he is the only one at the bar.
The bartender asks him if he noticed the fence on the way in, and the traveler nods. “I built that fence with my bare hands” he says, “but do they call me MacGregor the fence builder? No.”
The traveler changes the subject. “You did a good a good job on this pint, how long have you been tending bar?”
“Twenty years,” the man replied, “but do they call MacGregor the bartender? No.”
Confused, the traveler sighs and looks down at the floor.
“I see you eying my floor,” said the bartender, “I laid that floor twenty years ago with my bare hands, but do they call my MacGregor the carpenter? No.
But you fuck one goat…”
He follows a fence up the hill to find that the house is a pub. He goes inside and orders a pint, wondering why he is the only one at the bar.
The bartender asks him if he noticed the fence on the way in, and the traveler nods. “I built that fence with my bare hands” he says, “but do they call me MacGregor the fence builder? No.”
The traveler changes the subject. “You did a good a good job on this pint, how long have you been tending bar?”
“Twenty years,” the man replied, “but do they call MacGregor the bartender? No.”
Confused, the traveler sighs and looks down at the floor.
“I see you eying my floor,” said the bartender, “I laid that floor twenty years ago with my bare hands, but do they call my MacGregor the carpenter? No.
But you fuck one goat…”
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