It occurred on a Super Bowl Sunday some years back. In a packed rural Church. After the end of a particularly long sermon on the evils of beer drinkin and womanizin the Preacher announced that he had arranged a " special treat " for his congregation.
As the sports fans murmured softly, under their breath, a young man walked out to the lectern and began to play.
He played loudly, and in poor measure. The squeaking most nearly unbearable to all but the old and near deaf.
It went on, and on, as men and boy alike shuffled about nervously in the pews.
Checking their watches so on the sly as to not be noticed by the preacher.
During one awkward pause punctuated by silence a pained voice was overheard in the crowd to say
Oh ... mother f#@*er PLLLEEEAASSEEE!
Before the young man could resume his serenade, the Preacher stood abruptly with his right hand in the air. One bony finger pointed rigidly at the sky as he stated.
I will not dismiss this congregation until whoever called the piccolo player ... a MF reveals himself, and ask his forgiveness.
The congregation sat still as the dead. Total silence reigned for ten minutes.
Again the preacher addressed his flock.
No man will leave this church, and you will all miss the kickoff if the guilty party does not speak up.
More minutes passed.
The congregation began to shuffle and mumble. Some checking the time even considered accepting the responsibility, just to not miss the game.
Slowly a timid and trembling hand raised to the back right side of the rows of pews.
As the hand appeared above the sea of heads, the preacher ... now in a rage ... demanded, as he pointed accusingly at the young father seated in the back.
DID[i] YOU CALL THE PICCOLO PLAYER A MOTHER F'ER !![/i]
No sir, responded the young parishioner.
But I was wondering ...
Who said that mother f@#kr was a piccolo player ??
As the sports fans murmured softly, under their breath, a young man walked out to the lectern and began to play.
He played loudly, and in poor measure. The squeaking most nearly unbearable to all but the old and near deaf.
It went on, and on, as men and boy alike shuffled about nervously in the pews.
Checking their watches so on the sly as to not be noticed by the preacher.
During one awkward pause punctuated by silence a pained voice was overheard in the crowd to say
Oh ... mother f#@*er PLLLEEEAASSEEE!
Before the young man could resume his serenade, the Preacher stood abruptly with his right hand in the air. One bony finger pointed rigidly at the sky as he stated.
I will not dismiss this congregation until whoever called the piccolo player ... a MF reveals himself, and ask his forgiveness.
The congregation sat still as the dead. Total silence reigned for ten minutes.
Again the preacher addressed his flock.
No man will leave this church, and you will all miss the kickoff if the guilty party does not speak up.
More minutes passed.
The congregation began to shuffle and mumble. Some checking the time even considered accepting the responsibility, just to not miss the game.
Slowly a timid and trembling hand raised to the back right side of the rows of pews.
As the hand appeared above the sea of heads, the preacher ... now in a rage ... demanded, as he pointed accusingly at the young father seated in the back.
DID[i] YOU CALL THE PICCOLO PLAYER A MOTHER F'ER !![/i]
No sir, responded the young parishioner.
But I was wondering ...
Who said that mother f@#kr was a piccolo player ??
