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Arthur is 90 years old. He's played golf every day since his retirement 25 years ago. One day he arrives home looking downcast.
"That's it", he tells his wife. "I'm giving up golf. My eyesight has got so bad that, once I've hit the ball, I can't see where it went."
His wife sympathizes, and makes him a cuppa. As they sit down she says, "Why don't you take my brother with you, and give it one more try?"
"That's no good," sighs Arthur. "Your brother's a hundred and three. He can't help."
"He may be a hundred and three," says his wife, "but his eyesight is perfect."
So, the next day, Arthur heads off to the golf course with his brother-in-law. He tees up, takes an almighty swing and squints down the fairway. He turns to his brother-in-law, "Did you see the ball?"
"Of course I did," replies his brother-in-law.
"Where did it go?" asks Arthur.
"I can't remember."
Muldoon lived alone in the Irish countryside with only a pet dog for company.
One day the dog died, and Muldoon went to the parish priest and asked, “Father, my dog is dead. Could ya’ be saying’ a mass for the poor creature?”
Father Patrick replied, “I’m afraid not; we cannot have services for an animal in the church. But there are some Baptists down the lane, and there’s no tellin’ what they believe. Maybe they’ll do something for the hound.”
Muldoon said, “I’ll go right away Father. Do ya’ think $5,000 is enough to donate to them for the service for the beast?”
Father Patrick exclaimed, “Sweet Mary, Mother of Jesus! Why didn’t ya tell me the dog was Catholic?”