A Lot to Share

"There were three priests who walked into a bar..."

"This is a joke, right?" said a second man as he nursed his pint.

"Of course it's a joke," said the first speaker in a faint Irish accent.

There were three of them and they were sitting around a tiny pub table.

"Anyway..." he continued. "There were three priests who walked into a bar, and the first one said, I've just been called a child abusing bastard, right?"

His companions nodded and one of them opened a fresh packet of nuts. It was a dark old-fashioned pub with little corners where groups could hide away and enjoy some privacy.

"...And the second priest says, well I've just been called a lazy, good for nothing, son of bitch!"

The speaker paused for effect.

"'That's nothing', said the third priest. 'This woman just called me a man o'God!'... but then she looked me up and down and said, 'Oh, sorry father, I thought you were someone else!'"

He laughed loudly at his own joke and downed his pint.

It was the monthly meeting of the self-named 'pissed off ministers society'. The three of them had been drinking together regularly for a couple of years now and their conversations tended to cover similar subjects each time.

The oldest man at the table was a rather glum looking pentecostal pastor who had been chased out of his church by his own elders two years before. He now worked in B&Q selling lawnmowers but joined the others for a pint because he still had a lot of issues to work through.

The comedian was the local catholic priest. He was tall and rotund, and generally presented an affable appearance, although he could become extremely gloomy when he'd had a few...

The final member of the little triad was the Anglican Vicar. He was short, wore extremely unfashionable clothes, and tended to look nervous most of the time. It was not unknown for him to hide in the toilet if certain parishioners came through the door. He didn't like confrontations and spent most of his time avoiding them.

When they had first met, they'd spent most of their time talking about how well they were doing, how big their churches were and how hard they were working. This had gone on for a while until they had downed one too many pints and began sharing their real stories. Now they tended to moan about falling congregations, overflowing in-trays, and the general misery of their fading lives. It usually cheered them up and helped them face another week.

This particular evening was no different, and they had soon polished off three pints each, and an uncertain number of bar snacks...

By the time the landlord rang the bell and it was time to leave, they were all a little the worse to wear. The pastor was showing the early warning signs of bursting into song, so the priest took him by the arm and led him to the door. All three found themselves out on the damp street.

"Till next time," said the pastor as he staggered on the curb.

The priest grinned and held him up. He waved to their friend and the two of them walked off together.

The vicar was left standing on the side of the road as the rain began to fall.

"Bloody typical!" he groaned as he set off.

It was a two mile walk back to the large empty vicarage. His wife had left him six months ago, having moved in with Dave from accounts. She had never been happy with him being a vicar. He worked too hard, the congregation were rude to her, they never had enough money and he was always depressed. Dave from accounts took her on holiday to Marbella and bought her a new car.