At the local municipal golf course one day, a devout and pious priest turned up for a game. His usual partner, a like-minded fellow clergyman was unavailable, so he asked the manager to

At the local municipal golf course one day, a devout and pious priest turned up for a game. His usual partner, a like-minded fellow clergyman was unavailable, so he asked the manager to find him someone, anyone, who could at least hold a putter without mistaking it for a holy water sprinkler. He specifically requested, "Preferably someone who doesn't use the Lord's name in vain every time they miss a shot, if you don't mind. My penance schedule is already quite full."

The manager, a gruff man named Barry who had heard every golf-related complaint under the sun, scratched his head. "Well, Father," he grumbled, "we've got ol' 'Lucky' Larry out on the tenth hole, but he curses like a sailor who just stubbed his toe on a battleship. And then there's 'Silent' Sally, but she takes five hours to play nine holes, contemplating every blade of grass. Your best bet is probably Mr. Henderson on the first tee. He's a bit… enthusiastic."

The priest, seeing no other option, nodded solemnly. "Enthusiasm can be channeled, Mr. Barry. Send him over."

Minutes later, a man built like a disgruntled grizzly bear, wearing a neon-green polo shirt and a visor that seemed to defy gravity, stomped over. "Henderson's the name, golf's the game, and let's get this show on the road, Father!" he boomed, extending a hand that felt like a catcher's mitt.

The first few holes were, surprisingly, calm. Then, on the par-4 fifth, Mr. Henderson shanked his drive into a particularly thorny bush. He stood there, eyes bulging, hands clenching his club. The priest braced himself.

"OH, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE!" Mr. Henderson roared, his voice echoing across the quiet course. "THAT WAS THE MOST VILE, ABOMINABLE, UTTERLY REPUGNANT SHOT I HAVE EVER WITNESSED! IT WAS A BLIGHT UPON THIS EARTH! A TRAVESTY OF TEEING OFF! MAY ALL THE PUTTERS IN MY BAG TURN INTO RUBBER CHICKENS!"

The priest, startled, jumped back slightly. He cleared his throat. "Mr. Henderson," he began gently, "perhaps a moment of reflection, a calm breath...?"

Mr. Henderson ignored him, still fuming. He grabbed another ball, placed it on the tee, and then proceeded to hit it directly into the lake.

This time, he didn't just roar. He unleashed a torrent of inventive, golf-specific expletives that would have made a pirate blush. He listed the ancestry of his golf club, questioned the structural integrity of the course design, and suggested that the golf ball itself was in league with the devil.

Suddenly, a blinding flash of lightning split the sky, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. A perfectly aimed bolt struck Mr. Henderson's neon-green visor, leaving it smoking gently. Mr. Henderson, completely unharmed but looking utterly bewildered, slowly turned to the priest, his jaw slack.

The priest, though outwardly calm, had a distinct tremor in his hand as he adjusted his collar. He looked up at the sky, then back at Mr. Henderson, who was now staring at his smoking visor with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Well, Mr. Henderson," the priest said, his voice surprisingly steady, "I believe that settles the argument about divine intervention. And on behalf of the Almighty... He just told me to tell you that He knows a thing or two about bad shots, but even He has His limits when it comes to language on the green."