Word: irishman
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Castle Square--"Abie's Irish Rose" at 8.15: You've heard the joke about the Irishman and the Jew. Well, it seems...
...that evening Paul Berlenbach, a onetime taxi-driver with an extraordinarily brutal and stupid face and enormous muscles, won the world's light-heavyweight championship from shifty, tired Mike McTigue. His methods was to plough flat-footed after the Irishman, taking two punches to one for the occasional privilege of bringing home his cemetery left. The referee's decision was unpopular. "A champion is ut," McTigue's followers queried, "that ham an'egger?" They were consoled only because they had seen, in a preliminary bout, a light-heavyweight boxer whose speed and rhythm surpassed anything...
...opposite corners of a roped square, sat a boxer. On his right was a young German, whose heavy, amazed face protruded from the folds of a bathrobe that concealed a torso bulging with incredible dorsal muscles, a pair of clumsy thighs. On his left sat an old Irishman, tired and sly, with a streak of blood like a scarlet worm running down his chin from the corner of his mouth. The ghouls waited. This man in the blue suit stood before them to announce a decision. He did so, when he felt that the drama of his pause had reached...
Those who hooted had seen this Irishman, Mike McTigue, light-heavyweight champion of the world, retreat all evening before Paul ("Punch 'em") Berlenbach of Astoria, L. I., who followed him with the angry obstinacy of an animal whose insignificant brain was fogged by the fumes of his very adequate blood. They had seen the Irishman's left hand flicker in the face of the assaulting one; they had seen him, in the sixth round, swing his right hand twice to Berlenbach's jaw, at which the latter sank to his knees, his cloudy face even cloudier...
...have ever hated all nations, professions and communities . . . but principally I hate and detest that animal called man." So wrote the angry Irishman, Jonathan Swift. So has come to think that onetime cable of conservatism, Painter Sir William Orpen. His painting was the exception: A white bear stands in the glare of a Paris prize ring. There is blood at his feet; he has just consummated upon a human bruiser, now unconscious, brutalities so magnificent that spectators of every sex, replete with ecstasy at the spectacle, slobber and clip, heedless of an ape that sits among them, scrutinizing with remote...