Drunkards Sermon Illustrations

Drunkards Sermon Illustrations

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Sing a song of sick gents,
Pockets full of rye,
Four and twenty highballs,
We wish that we might die.


Two booze-fiends were ambling homeward at an early hour, after being out nearly all night.

"Don't your wife miss you on these occasions?" asked one.

"Not often," replied the other; "she throws pretty straight."


"Where's old Four-Fingered Pete?" asked Alkali Ike. "I ain't seen him around here since I got back."

"Pete?" said the bartender. "Oh, he went up to Hyena Tongue and got jagged. Went up to a hotel winder, stuck his head in and hollered 'Fire!' and everybody did."


The Irish talent for repartee has an amusing illustration in Lord Rossmore's recent book "Things I Can Tell." While acting as magistrate at an Irish village, Lord Rossmore said to an old offender brought before him: "You here again?" "Yes, your honor." "What's brought you here?" "Two policemen, your honor." "Come, come, I know that—drunk again, I suppose?" "Yes, your honor, both of them."


The colonel came down to breakfast New Year's morning with a bandaged hand.

"Why, colonel, what's the matter?" they asked.

"Confound it all!" the colonel answered, "we had a little party last night, and one of the younger men got intoxicated and stepped on my hand."


MAGISTRATE—"And what was the prisoner doing?"
CONSTABLE—"E were 'avin' a very 'eated argument with a cab driver, yer worship."
MAGISTRATE—"But that doesn't prove he was drunk."
CONSTABLE—"Ah, but there worn't no cab driver there, yer worship."


A Scotch minister and his servant, who were coming home from a wedding, began to consider the state into which their potations at the wedding feast had left them.

"Sandy," said the minister, "just stop a minute here till I go ahead. Maybe I don't walk very steady and the good wife might remark something not just right."

He walked ahead of the servant for a short distance and then asked:

"How is it? Am I walking straight?"

"Oh, ay," answered Sandy thickly, "ye're a' recht—but who's that who's with ye."


A man in a very deep state of intoxication was shouting and kicking most vigorously at a lamp post, when the noise attracted a near-by policeman.

"What's the matter?" he asked the energetic one.

"Oh, never mind, mishter. Thash all right," was the reply; "I know she'sh home all right—I shee a light upshtairs."


A pompous little man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a thoughtful brow boarded a New York elevated train and took the only unoccupied seat. The man next him had evidently been drinking. For a while the little man contented himself with merely sniffing contemptuously at his neighbor, but finally he summoned the guard.

"Conductor," he demanded indignantly, "do you permit drunken people to ride upon this train?"

"No, sir," replied the guard in a confidential whisper. "But don't say a word and stay where you are, sir. If ye hadn't told me I'd never have noticed ye."


A noisy bunch tacked out of their club late one night, and up the street. They stopped in front of an imposing residence. After considerable discussion one of them advanced and pounded on the door. A woman stuck her head out of a second-story window and demanded, none too sweetly: "What do you want?"

"Ish thish the residence of Mr. Smith?" inquired the man on the steps, with an elaborate bow.

"It is. What do you want?"

"Ish it possible I have the honor of speakin' to Misshus Smith?"

"Yes. What do you want?"

"Dear Misshus Smith! Good Misshus Smith! Will you—hic—come down an' pick out Mr. Smith? The resh of us want to go home."


That clever and brilliant genius, McDougall, who represented California in the United States Senate, was like many others of his class somewhat addicted to fiery stimulants, and unable to battle long with them without showing the effect of the struggle. Even in his most exhausted condition he was, however, brilliant at repartee; but one night, at a supper of journalists given to the late George D. Prentice, a genius of the same mold and the same unfortunate habit, he found a foeman worthy of his steel in General John Cochrane. McDougall had taken offense at some anti-slavery sentiments which had been uttered—it was in war times—and late in the evening got on his legs for the tenth time to make a reply. The spirit did not move him to utterance, however; on the contrary, it quite deprived him of the power of speech; and after an ineffectual attempt at speech he suddenly concluded:

"Those are my sentiments, sir, and my name's McDougall."

"I beg the gentleman's pardon," said General Cochrane, springing to his feet; "but what was that last remark?"

McDougall pronounced it again; "my name's McDougall."

"There must be some error," said Cochrane, gravely. "I have known Mr. McDougall many years, and there never was a time when as late as twelve o'clock at night he knew what his name was."

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