An Irish Priest is transferred to Texas. He rose from his bed one morning. It was a fine spring day in his new west Texas mission parish. He walked to the window of his bedroom to get a deep breath of the beautiful day outside. He then noticed there was a jackass lying dead in the middle of his front lawn.
He promptly called the local police station. The conversation went like this: “Good morning. This is Sergeant Jones. How might I help you?”
“And the best of the day to yourself. This is Father O’Malley at St. Ann’s Catholic Church. There’s a jackass lying dead in me front lawn and would ye be so kind as to send a couple o’ yer lads to take care of the matter.”
Sergeant Jones, considering himself to be quite a wit and recognizing the accent, thought he would have a little fun with the good father, replied,
“Well now Father, it was always my impression that you people took care of the last rites!”
There was dead silence on the line for a long moment.
Then, Father O’Malley replied, “Aye, ’tis certainly true; but we are also obliged to notify the next of kin first, which is the reason for me call.”
Why We Love Children….
One summer evening during a violent thunderstorm a mother was tucking her son into bed.
She was about to turn off the light when he asked with a tremor in his voice, ‘Mommy, will you sleep with me tonight?’
The mother smiled and gave him a reassuring hug.
‘I can’t dear,’ she said. ‘I have to sleep in Daddy’s room.’
A long silence was broken at last by his shaky little voice:
‘The big sissy.’
One day the first grade teacher was reading the story of Chicken Little to her class.
She came to the part of the story where Chicken Little tried to warn the farmer. She read, ‘…and so Chicken Little went up to the farmer and said, ‘The sky is falling, the sky is falling!’
The teacher paused then asked the class, ‘And what do you think that farmer said?’
One little girl raised her hand and said, ‘I think he said: ‘Holy Shit! A talking chicken!”
The teacher was unable to teach for the next 10 minutes.
A certain little girl, when asked her name, would reply, I’m Mr. Sugarbrown’s daughter.’
Her mother told her this was wrong, she must say, ‘I’m Jane Sugarbrown.’
The Vicar spoke to her in Sunday School, and said, ‘Aren’t you Mr. Sugarbrown’s daughter?’
She replied, ‘I thought I was, but mother says I’m not.’