A sixteen year old girl goes to confession.
Father, I called a man a son-of-a-bitch
yesterday.
Why did you call him a son-of-a-bitch?? the
priest asked.
Because, Father, he touched me on my arm
without permission.
Do you mean like this?? He touches her arm.
Yes Father.
That’s no reason for calling him a son of a
bitch.
But Father, he also touched my breasts.
You mean like this?? He touches her breasts.
Yes Father.
That’s no reason to call him a son-of-a-bitch.
But Father, he took off my clothes.
Like this?? He takes off her clothes.
Yes Father.
That’s no reason to call him a son-of-a-bitch.
But Father he then put his you-know-what in
my you-know-where.
Like this?? He put his you-know-what in her
you-know-where.
Yes Father, she says sometime later, after
catching her breath.
But that’s no reason to call him a
son-of-a-bitch.
But Father, he has AIDS.
That son of a bitch!
***
A newly ordained Catholic priest was nervous about hearing confessions, so he asked an older, more experienced priest to observe one of his sessions and give him some advice. After a few minutes of watching and listening, the older priest pulled the younger one aside to give him a few suggestions.
“Try folding your arms over your chest, and rubbing your chin with one hand. This gives the impression that you are listening thoughtfully. Then try saying things like: “I see.”, “I understand.” and “Yes, go on.”
The younger priest practiced these things for a minute. Then the older one asked, “Don’t you think that’s better than slapping your knee and saying, “No way! What happened next?”
***
If you’ve seen the above post before, it’s because unforeseen technical difficulties accidently deleted it from my list of posts. I’ve been able to re-publish it, but I’m missing all those lovely likes and comments. 😯
