“What’ll it be, rev’?” asks the barkeep.

“Twelve shots of tequila,” replies the sky pilot. “Line ‘em up here in front of me.”

The barkeep raises one quizzical eyebrow, but hey, the customer is always right, so he reaches for the Mexican cactus whiskey and commences to fill shot glasses, lining them up in formation like so many little choirboys in front of the preacher.

Taking a deep breath, the parson slams the shots, one after the other, as the barkeep watches in astonishment. Downing the 12th and final shooter, coughing, his eyes watering, the rev’ sighs and slumps on his stool, elbows on the bar, both trembling hands clutching his spinning skull.

Taking a deep breath, the bartender leans forward and whispers, ‘Y’know, I’ve never seen one of you sky pilots in here, much less slamming tequila shots like a college kid on spring break. Y’don’t mind my askin’, what the hell’s the story here?”

The rev’ replies, “Well, I probably shouldn’t say, but you seem like a fellow who can keep a confidence. The truth is, I just got my first blowjob.”

The barkeep bursts out laughing. “Well, hell, padre, why didn’t you say so? The house would’ve been happy to buy you one.”

Replies the preacher: “Thanks, but I didn’t think one would take the taste out of my mouth.”