Factoid

Dear Readers:

There you have it -- this story is a factual one. Okay, I have this problem -- telling tall tales. Don't get me wrong, I like telling goofy stories. It's just, I forget other people can't always recognize when I'm venturing from the truth. It's not dishonesty -- I'm as "painfully honest" (my mother would say) as they come. But as long as I can remember, I'll start to tell a tale, and then then my story takes off on its own, not necessarily in reliable fashion. Hence, the title of this post: FACTOID. Now you know I'm telling the truth.

This venturing from the facts goes back a long way. Remember grade school and SHOW AND TELL? I loved that part of elementary school. Doing homework and sitting all day attached to my desk was boring, but I looked forward to story time. One day, in second or third grade, my time for SHOW AND TELL had arrived. I had lots to say. My story was about a family vacation. I told how our family went on vacation and found this interesting house to explore. Next thing you know, we were finding secret passageways, walking in dark, scary corridors, and falling through hidden trap doors. I was really enjoying this yarn, when all of a sudden, my teacher interrupted my storytelling.


Teacher Lady: "Now, you know that really didn't happen, right?"

Student Master Story Teller: "Yes, it did happen," I said, alarmed my credibility was being attacked. (My honor was at stake. I had to say something.)


Teacher Lady gave me a stern look. I crawled back to my desk and slunk into the chair, feeling somewhat ashamed for telling tall tales. I should have proclaimed my innocence. I really wasn't trying to lie. I just got carried away by my story, is all. Let that be a lesson to all us old fogies -- embrace our inner child! Stand up and be heard. Revolt, I say, in the name of justice! Well then, protest if not revolt -- at least stand by our stories. There are too many constraints placed on childlike wonder and excitement these days. Let us not distance ourselves from our creative pasts. Open up our sandboxes and play, play, play. (Do you think I'm losing my marbles?)

My middle daughter's artistic ability was cramped by a nice teacher. She was coloring an animal, and the teacher noticed her crayon marks strayed outside of the outline. She was told to "draw within the lines." I asked middle daughter why she didn't do as the teacher instructed. She told me that she was drawing the dog or cat's fur and that fur "doesn't look like that" (the line drawing). I think her teacher needed to be taught a thing or two. Well, I'm done talking about this -- moving on. Now, it's time for stories from Father Funny.

This past Sunday I listened to a visiting priest tell a few jokes. I actually remembered what he said. Usually I'm clueless what happens in Mass because I zone out. The pews are too comfortable, and I'm never awake. This was a visiting priest, and he was fun to listen to. Here are two of his humorous stories.


Funny number one:


An Irish man's parents immigrated to Texas, hoping for a better life after living in poverty and hardship in Ireland. Their son became a wealthy man, and he planned a return trip to Ireland to survey the land of his fathers and to show off his wealth. He arrived in Ireland, and his chauffeur drove him around the island in a luxury sedan. He came upon a small plot of land and eyed a poor farmer chewing on a piece of straw. The rich Texan stopped his car and walked toward the farmer.

Texas Money Bags: "Say fella. How big is your spread here?"

Irish Farmer: "Oh, she runs to the tree over there, to that boulder and back," he said, pointing to a small pittance of land.

Texas Money Bags: "You know friend, where I come from, I can start my car on a Saturday, and it takes me until Wednesday to circle my property."

Irish Farmer: "Oh, I know what you mean," he said, pointing to the Texan's luxury vehicle. "I used to have a car like that. Had to get rid of it."


Funny number two:


A Irish priest gave a spirited homily one Sunday morning. He was banging on the pulpit and screaming and hollering at the congregation, when all of a sudden he looked out over the parishioners and shook his finger. "Which of ye wants to go to heaven? If so, stand up now!" He looked and saw nary a soul sitting -- all were standing. Then he proceeded to preach some more, and his face flushed from all the enthusiasm. He banged the pulpit some more and stretched out his hand again and shook his finger. "Now, declare your allegiance. Which of ye wishes to go to hell. Stand, if it be your desire to go to hell." All immediately sat down, save one.

A hush swept over the congregation, and all eyes were on the lone man.

"So, Sean Flanagan," the priest said, seeing Sean standing in the last pew of the church and trembling a bit. "I have it, you want to go to hell?"

"No Father," Sean replied, his voice quaking. "I just didn't feel right seeing you standing there all by yourself."

Until later.