Horizon
Registrant
So there’s a wonderful fish and chips shop down on the boardwalk at the Jersey Shore, not far from where I live. Monks run it, and being a good Catholic, I figure I ought to support such a worthy endeavor. The reputation is that the place serves the best fish and chips in the world, so I go there and buy a meal.
And by gosh, they are the best fish and chips in the world! So good, in fact, that I have to go back to the kitchen and thank the chefs. And there they are, laboring in monkly robes over a hot stove. “Excuse me, sir,” I say, “are you the fish friar?”
“No, son. I’m the chip monk.”
And by gosh, they are the best fish and chips in the world! So good, in fact, that I have to go back to the kitchen and thank the chefs. And there they are, laboring in monkly robes over a hot stove. “Excuse me, sir,” I say, “are you the fish friar?”
“No, son. I’m the chip monk.”
