The subway screeched to a stop, and in stumbled a man who smelled like an entire distillery.
His tie was crooked, lipstick smeared across his cheek, and a half-empty bottle of gin peeked out of his torn coat pocket.
He dropped heavily into the seat beside a priest.
For a moment, neither spoke. The man opened his newspaper, squinting at the print through bleary eyes. Then he turned to the priest and slurred,
“Hey, Father… what causes arthritis?”
Without looking up, the priest sighed.
“My son, it’s caused by loose living — chasing cheap women, drinking too much, and showing contempt for your fellow man.”
The drunk blinked.
“Wow,” he muttered, turning back to his paper.
A moment later, guilt pricked the priest’s conscience. He had been too harsh.
He leaned closer, softening his tone.
“I’m sorry, my son. I didn’t mean to sound judgmental. How long have you had arthritis?”
The man looked up, puzzled — then grinned.
“Oh, I don’t have it, Father. I was just reading here that the Pope does.”
