THE F-WORD: A Confession You Won’t Believe

I went to confession and said, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The priest asked if I’d like to share my sins, and I admitted that I had used the “F-word” over the weekend.

The priest seemed relieved it was just that and said, “Just say three Hail Marys and try to watch your language.” But I felt I needed to explain why I had cursed.

With a sigh, the priest told me to go on. “Well, Father, I played golf on Sunday with my buddies instead of going to church.”

The priest asked, “And you got upset over that?”

I shook my head. “No, that wasn’t why I swore. On the first tee, I hit my drive way left into the trees.”

“So that’s when you swore?” he guessed.

“No, it wasn’t,” I replied, getting a bit annoyed with the interruptions. “When I walked up the fairway, I saw that my ball had bounced out and I had a clear shot to the green. But before I could hit it, a squirrel darted out, grabbed my ball, and scampered up a tree.”

The priest leaned in, “Is that when you said the ‘F-word’?”

“No,” I continued, “because right then, an eagle swooped down, grabbed the squirrel, and flew away.”

The priest looked puzzled and asked, “Is that when you swore?”

“No,” I said, my voice rising with excitement. “The eagle flew over the green, and the poor dying squirrel dropped my ball, which landed just five inches from the hole.”

The priest gasped, “Don’t tell me you missed the damn putt!”