A young nun approached the Mother Superior, head bowed in shame. “Reverend Mother, I have a confession. I used some truly horrific language on the course this week, and the guilt is eating me alive.”
“What on earth could have possessed you to speak such way?” the Mother Superior asked, concerned.
“Well, Mother, I was on the 16th hole and hit the drive of my life. It was easily 250 yards out, but mid-air it struck a low-hanging phone line. The ball dropped stone-dead after barely a hundred yards.”
The Mother Superior winced. “I see. And that is when you swore?”
“No, Mother,” the nun sighed. “Just as I walked toward it, a squirrel darted out of the brush, snatched the ball in its teeth, and began racing away.”
“And that is when you let it fly?”
“No, not yet. Because right then, a hawk swept down from the clouds, clutched the squirrel in its talons, and began to carry it off toward the green.”
The Mother Superior’s eyes widened. “Surely that was the moment?”
“Actually, no. As they flew over the putting surface, the squirrel squirmed, and the hawk dropped my ball. It hit a rock, skipped over the sand trap, caught the slope of the green, and rolled until it stopped exactly two inches from the cup.”
A heavy silence fell between them. The Mother Superior closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, and let out a long, weary breath.
“You missed the fuckin’ putt, didn’t you?”
We love this joke because, in the end, it’s not just a joke about golf; it’s a joke about the common human experience of getting a front-row seat to our own failure. We can all find a bit of ourselves in that nun, whether we’re swinging a club or just trying to make it through the week without dropping the “F-bomb.”
What’s your best (or worst!) “almost-made-it” story? Share it in the comments below! ~ Kirby
