I don’t get it.
Ahem. The ladies evidently missed his “godawmighty huge limbaugh”. Rather more than they were impressed by the King.
There was a beekeeper in Mallén whose language was so foul even his neighbors found it too foul; his mouth was such a sewer he could have made a stone statue cover its ears with its hands to cut out such a stream of ill speak.
One day as the beekeeper was riding his donkey to the market in Saragossa to sell his honey, his path crossed that of a Franciscan monk. The Franciscan said “may the Good Lord bless you this morning, brother! Where are you going?”
The beekeeper answered, and I’m making this milder because I don’t want the police to come and carry me away on one count of obscenity, “fuck the Lord and fuck you damn beggar with a rusted spike taken from the Cross! Ain’t no business of yours, you piece of shit, but I’m going down to market!”
“Are you?” said the brother, who after all was from the region and didn’t have that meekness thing down pat yet. And he prayed to the Lord Father, please show to this man the error of his ways and that he can not go anywhere unless You allow it; thank you, Lord.
And the Lord made the beekeeper’s donkey buckle, and the beekeeper and the jars flew, and the beekeeper landed on a pool of rainwater and all his jars broke, which made every fly and bee in the area very happy and him very angry. And he came upon the monk shaking his fist and cursing worse than before, but the monk calmly said “learn your lesson for next time: do not take the Lord’s name in vain and learn some manners.”
Next week the beekeeper was again taking his honey to market, and the same thing happened. On the third week, the monk said “may the Good Lord bless you, brother, and may I ask where are you going on this beautiful morn?”
And the beekeeper, as red as if he’d already been tossed off the donkey, answered “all right, you fucking piece o’ shit beggar, I’m going to the fucking market or to the fucking damn pool!”