Walking into a gritty dive bar is the last place you’d expect to receive a lecture on eternal damnation—until a shadow falls over your stool, bringing the chilly air of divine judgment with it.
A man was just about to raise a glass of smooth whiskey to his lips when a nun suddenly appeared beside him, pointing an accusing finger. “Do not touch that, my son! That is the devil’s brew!”
The man smiled, completely unfazed. “Relax, sister, it’s just a drink. Have you ever actually tried it? You really shouldn’t judge something before you’ve had at least one taste.”
The nun crossed her arms tightly. “Mother Superior warned me to never let that evil liquid cross my lips, and as a faithful servant, I obey.”
Sensing a fun challenge, the man insisted, “Just one sip. It’s incredibly smooth. Tell you what—I’ll buy it for you.”
The nun hesitated, looking around the dim room before finally giving in. “Fine. But tell the bartender to hide it in a plastic cup and give you a straw. I absolutely cannot be seen drinking the devil’s brew in public.”
Delighted, the man walked up to the counter and called out, “Bartender, give me two shots of whiskey—but pour one into a plastic cup and throw in a straw.”
The bartender stopped wiping the counter, let out a heavy sigh, and groaned:
“Oh, great. Is that drunken nun back in here again?”
