Catholic Humor

We Single Catholics are known for our ability to stand up, kneel, and sit down a billion times in one hour, for our ability to recite an entire mass by memory, and for our ability to laugh at ourselves. Hence, a few great jokes about us:

Catholic Humor: The Burglar Late one night, a burglar broke into a house he thought was empty. He tiptoed through the living room but suddenly he froze in his tracks when he heard a loud voice say: “Jesus is watching you!”

Silence returned to the house, so the burglar crept forward again. “Jesus is watching you,” the voice boomed again. The burglar stopped dead again. He was frightened. Frantically, he looked all around. In a dark corner, he spotted a bird cage and in the cage was a parrot. He asked the parrot:

“Was that you who said Jesus is watching me?” “Yes,” said the parrot. The burglar breathed a sigh of relief and asked the parrot: “What’s your name?” “Clarence,” said the bird.

“That’s a dumb name for a parrot,”sneered the burglar. “What idiot named you Clarence?” The parrot said, “The same idiot who named the Doberman Jesus.”

Catholic Humor: Confession A Catholic boy and a Jewish boy were talking and the Catholic boy said, “My priest knows more than your rabbi.” The Jewish boy said, “Of course he does, you tell him everything.”

Catholic Humor: Baptism After the Baptism of his baby brother in church, little Johnny sobbed all the way home in the back seat of the car. His father asked him three times what was wrong. Finally, the boy replied, “That priest said he wanted us brought up in a Christian home, but I want to stay with you guys.”

Catholic Humor: Math Little Tommy was having trouble in math, so his mother enrolled him in a Catholic school, thinking the discipline would help him. When Tommy came home with an A on his first report card, his mother was thrilled “Tommy, how did you do it!” “Well,” he replied, “when I got to school and I saw the guy nailed to the plus sign, I knew they were serious about math.”

Catholic Humor: Last Rites A man is struck by a bus on a busy street in New York City. He lies dying on the sidewalk as a crowd of on-lookers gathers around. “A priest. Somebody get me a priest!” the man gasps. A policeman checks the crowd—-no priest, no minister, no man of God of any kind. “A PRIEST, PLEASE!” the dying man says again. Then out of the crowd steps a little old man dressed shabbily and of at least eighty years of age

“Mr. Policeman,” says the man, “I’m not a priest. I’m not even a Catholic. But for fifty years now I’ve been living behind St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church on First Avenue, and every night I’ve listened to the Catholic litany. Maybe I can be of some comfort to this man.”

The policeman agrees and brings the octogenarian over to where the dying man lay. He kneels down, leans over the injured man and says slowly in a solemn voice:”B-4. I-19. N-38. G-54. O-72…”

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