Artie was returning home from the pub, smelling like a distillery. He flopped on a bus seat next to a priest.
His tie was stained, his face was plastered with red lipstick, and a half empty bottle of whisky was sticking out of his torn coat pocket. He opened his newspaper and began reading.
He turned towards the priest and asked, “Father, what causes arthritis?”
“Well my son,” looking down his nose at the inebriated Artie. “It’s the result of loose living, being with cheap, wicked women, too much whisky and contempt for your fellow man.”
“Well I’ll be damned!” Artie muttered, returning to his paper.
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The priest, feeling a little guilty, said, “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. How long have you had arthritis?”
“I don’t, Father. But I was just reading here that the Pope does.”
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