An old farmer lived alone in Ireland because his only son joined the rebellion and was in a British prison.
The old farmer wrote to his son: “You left me all alone and now it’s planting time and I have no one to help me spade the potato garden, so I’ll surely starve before the year is out.”
The son wrote back: “For God’s sake, don’t touch that garden, that’s where I buried all the guns!”
The next morning the man was dragged off to the police station while the police dug up his whole property looking for guns. But he was released when they didn’t find any.
The man wrote to the son: “You’ve made me look like a criminal and I’ve been humiliated me in front of the whole village. Now what am I supposed to do?”
The son wrote back: “Now plant your potatoes.”
As long as they keep exporting leprechauns for breakfast cereal and soap bars, the Irish are OK with me.