A priest hooks a huge fish. Helping him reel it in, a sailor says “Whoa, look at the size of that fucker!” “Hey, mind your language!” says the priest. Embarrassed, the sailor thinks quickly and blurts out, “Sorry Father, but that’s what this fish is called – it’s a Fucker fish”
Accepting the explanation, the priest forgives the sailor and takes the fish back to church. “Look at this huge fucker” says the priest, spotting the bishop. “Language please! This is God’s house,” replies the bishop. “No, no – that’s what this fish is called,” says the priest. “Oh,” says the bishop, scratching his chin “I could clean that fucker And we could have it for dinner”.. So the bishop takes the fish, cleans it, and brings it to the mother superior. “Could you cook this fucker for dinner tonight?” he asks her. “My, what language!” she exclaims, clearly shocked. “No, sister that’s what the fish is called – a fucker” says the bishop.
Satisfied with the explanation, the mother superior says, “Wonderful, I’ll cook that fucker tonight, the Pope is coming for dinner!” The fish tastes just great and the Pope asks where they got it. “Well, I caught the fucker!” says the priest. “And I cleaned the fucker!” says the bishop. “And I cooked the fucker!” says the mother superior.
The Pope stares at them for a minute with a steely glaze, leans back on his chair, takes off his cap, puts his feet up on the table, pours himself a whiskey and says “You know what? You pricks are alright.”