A nun walked into a little liquor store just before supper, folded her hands on the counter, and asked for a fifth of vodka.
The clerk stared at her for a second.
“Sister,” he said, “I can’t sell you that. You’re a nun.”
She leaned closer, lowered her voice, and said, “It is not for me. It is for Mother Superior.”
The clerk still looked doubtful.
The nun glanced toward the door, then whispered, “It’s for her constipation.”
That changed everything. The clerk nodded like a man handling serious medical business.
“Well, if it’s for Mother Superior,” he said, “I suppose that’s different.”
He wrapped the bottle in a brown paper bag and handed it over.
A few hours later, he closed the shop and started walking home. Two blocks down, he saw the empty bottle rolling near the curb. A few feet away, the nun was sitting on the sidewalk, giggling to herself.
He rushed over.
“Sister!” he said. “You told me that vodka was for Mother Superior’s constipation.”
The nun opened one eye and smiled.
“It is,” she said. “When she sees me like this, she’s going to lose it.”
