So, I went to confession, feeling all guilty, and said, “Father, forgive me, for I’ve messed up.” The priest gave me a nod, asking if I wanted to spill the beans, and I confessed to dropping the dreaded “F-bomb” over the weekend.

The priest kinda chuckled, telling me to say three Hail Marys and to clean up my language. But I felt I owed him the full story.

With a sigh, the priest motioned for me to spill the beans. “Okay, spill it,” he said. “What happened?”

“Well, Father,” I began, “I skipped church on Sunday to play golf with my buddies.”

The priest raised an eyebrow. “And that got you cussing?”

I shook my head. “No, that wasn’t the trigger. It all went down on the first tee. I took a swing, and whoosh! My ball went flying way off course, deep into the trees.”

“So, that’s when you let it rip?” the priest guessed.

“Nope,” I replied, feeling a tad annoyed by the interruptions. “As I walked toward my ball, I saw it had miraculously bounced out onto the fairway.

I had a clear shot at the green. But just as I was about to take my swing, a squirrel appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my ball, and scampered up a tree.”

The priest leaned in, intrigued. “And that’s when the curse words flew?”

“Not quite,” I said, my excitement growing. “Because right then, out of the blue, an eagle swooped down, snatched the squirrel, and soared off into the sky.”

The priest looked baffled. “And that’s when you let it rip?”

“Nope,” I exclaimed, feeling the adrenaline rush. “The eagle flew over the green, and as the squirrel was taking its last breaths, it dropped my ball, which landed just inches from the hole!”

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

I hung my head in shame. “Father, you know me too well. I choked, and I missed the darn putt!”