For my Colonial friends, there really is a village in Wales with the name, Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, the only part I can pronounce is the last three syllables… Go-Go- GOK
Lunch at Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, Anglesey, North Wales...
On a beautiful summer’s day, two American tourists were driving through Wales.
At Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, they stopped for lunch.
They said to the waitress, “Before we order, I wonder if you could settle an argument for us by pronouncing where we are, but very, very, very slowly please?”...
The girl leaned over and said, “Burrr gurrr king.”
The Reverend Francis Norton woke up Sunday morning and, realising it was an exceptionally beautiful and sunny early spring day, decided he just had to play golf. So he told the Associate Pastor that he was feeling sick and convinced him to say Mass for him that day.
As soon as the Associate Pastor left the room, Father Norton headed out of town to a golf course about forty miles away. This way he knew he wouldn’t accidentally meet anyone he knew from his parish.
Setting up on the first tee, he was alone. After all, it was Sunday morning and everyone else was in church!
At about this time, Saint Peter leaned over to the Lord while looking down from the heavens and exclaimed, “You’re not going to let him get away with this, are you?”
The Lord sighed, and said, “No, I guess not.”
Just then Father Norton hit the ball and it shot straight towards the pin, dropping just short of it, rolled up and fell into the hole. IT WAS A 420 YARD HOLE IN ONE!
St. Peter was astonished. He looked at the Lord and asked, “Why did you let him do that?”
The Lord smiled and replied, “Who’s he going to tell?”
