The Honest Smuggler

On a flight back from Switzerland, an elegant woman sat beside a kind-looking priest. After some polite conversation, she leaned over and whispered, “Father, would you mind helping me with something a bit… delicate?”

“Of course, my child,” the priest replied with a smile. “How can I assist?”

“I bought this fancy hair removal device. It cost a fortune and it’s way over the customs allowance. I’m worried they’ll seize it when I land. Could you hide it under your robe for me?”

The priest hesitated. “I can carry it, but I must tell you—I cannot tell a lie.”

She chuckled. “Oh, Father, you look so trustworthy. No one would even think to question you!”

Later, as the priest passed through customs, the officer asked politely, “Anything to declare, Father?”

The priest nodded calmly. “From my head down to my waist, nothing to declare.”

The officer raised an eyebrow. “And from your waist down?”

“Well,” said the priest, “there’s something quite special down there. It’s a small device made for ladies, never before used.”

The customs officer turned red and waved him through, laughing. “Move along, Father… and good luck.”

Little Johnny was headed to spend the weekend with his dad. He loaded everything he owned into his red wagon and began dragging it behind him.

As he struggled up a steep hill, he grumbled loudly, “Ugh! This stupid thing is heavy!”

A nearby priest overheard and stepped in. “Johnny, mind your language. The Lord hears everything—you know He’s everywhere.”

Johnny looked up, sweat dripping down his brow. “Everywhere?”

“Yes,” said the priest. “He’s in the church, in the trees, even walking beside you.”

Johnny paused, glanced back at his wagon, then asked, “Is He in my wagon too?”

The priest chuckled. “Yes, Johnny. He’s there too.”

Without missing a beat, Johnny shouted, “Well, tell Him to get out and help push already!”

A Bus Ride with Chanel and Garlic

I was riding the bus when a classy lady, dressed to the nines and smelling like a flower shop in springtime, sat next to me. After a few minutes, curiosity got the better of me.

“Excuse me,” I asked politely. “Your perfume is amazing—may I ask what it is and where you got it? I’d love to surprise my wife.”

She smiled. “It’s Chanel. Straight from Paris.”

We rode in silence for a bit, but then nature called… quietly. I let out a soft one, hoping it’d go unnoticed.

A moment later, the lady winced and waved her hand. “Oh my heavens! What is that smell?”

I shrugged and said, “Garlic. I’m from Gilroy, California—the garlic capital of the world.”