A golfer playing in Ireland hooked his drive into the woods. Looking for his ball, he found a little Leprechaun flat on his back, a big bump on his head and the golfer's ball beside him.

A golfer playing in Ireland hooked his drive into the woods. Looking for his ball, he found a little leprechaun flat on his back, a big bump on his head, and the golfer’s ball beside him.

“Oh no! Are you alright?” the golfer asked, rushing over to help.

The leprechaun sat up, rubbed his head, and grumbled, “Aye, I was mindin’ me own business, enjoyin’ a nap in the clover, and suddenly I’m bein’ used as target practice!”

“I’m so sorry,” the golfer said. “Can I do anything to make it up to you?”

The leprechaun squinted at him. “Well, you did whack me in the noggin, so I suppose I owe you three wishes. But since I’m a bit concussed, make it quick.”

The golfer thought for a moment and said, “Alright. I wish for an endless supply of money, a golf swing as smooth as butter, and a lifetime supply of Irish stew.”

The leprechaun snapped his fingers. “Done.”

Amazed, the golfer beamed. “Wait, that’s it? That was easy!”

“Careful what you wish for,” the leprechaun muttered, dusting off his coat. “Your bank account now magically refills every morning, but only in euros. Your golf swing is smooth, but now you can’t blame it when you miss. And the stew? It’ll show up on your doorstep every Tuesday. Whether you want it or not.”

The golfer chuckled and helped the leprechaun up.

As he walked back to the fairway, the leprechaun shouted after him, “Next time aim for the green, not my spleen!”