THE ECCLESIASTICAL EXPLETIVE
A curate enters the vicar's study, plonks himself
resignedly into an armchair, and emits a world-weary sigh.
'Why the downbeat demeanour, dear friend?'
enquires the concerned vicar. 'I thought this is the day
you spend with your family.'
'It is,' laments the curate, 'and I went to play golf
with my brother. You know, I was a successful player
before my life took a more meaningful turn.'
'So I recall,' agrees the vicar, 'so I take it your day
of recreation didn't turn out to be relaxing?'
'Far from it,' snorts the curate. 'In fact I even took
the Lord's name in vain.'
'Oh my dear fellow,' empathises the vicar, adding
in morbid fascination: 'You must tell me about it.'
'Well, we were on the fifth tee, a monster 540-yard par five
with a nasty dog-leg left and a hidden green. I hit
the drive of my life; nailed it; the sweetest swing I ever made.
It flew along my envisaged line, then it hit a bird in mid flight.'
'Oh bad luck, but surely that didn't make you blaspheme?'
'No that wasn't it, while I was trying to take stock of the situation,
a squirrel ran out of the woods, grabbed my ball and ran off
down the fairway.'
'So that's when you swore?'
'No that wasn't it either,' sobs the curate. 'While I was pondering
whether this was a sign from God, a hawk swooped out of the sky,
grabbed the squirrel and flew off, with my ball still clutched
in its paws.'
'So that's when your patience finally snapped,' asserted the vicar.
'No, even that wasn't it, the squirrel struggled free of the hawk
and it fell onto the green. The ball rolled out of its grip
and ended up about 18 inches from the flag.'
The vicar lolls smugly in his chair, folds his arms, fixes the curate
with a baleful stare and declares:
'You missed the effing putt, didn't you?'
Compliments of Ed.
These are all so funny. 