I got on the subway one night in TO and found an empty seat next to an older priest. I have to admit I probably reeked of Labatts, my tie more than a little stained, my cheeks bearing a multitude of red lipstick smears, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey was sticking out of my torn coat pocket. So, I sat down, opened up my newspaper, and began reading my wrinkled copy of the Sun.

After a few minutes of reading the paper, I turned to the priest and asked, "Say, Father, what causes arthritis?"

The priest gave me a scornful glance and replied, "son, it's caused by loose living, being with cheap and wicked women, too much alcohol, contempt for your fellow man, and lack of a bath."

"Well," I muttered in response, "I'll be damned!" I then returned to reading my newspaper.

The priest, thinking about what he had said, nudged me and said, "I am very sorry. I did not mean to come on so strong. Just how long have you had arthritis, son?"

I turned to the priest and said, "Oh, I don't have it, Father. I was just reading here that the Pope does."