Along came an older man, probably early to late 70s, walking a small terrier (apparently the recent victim of an overzealous groomer). He stops when he gets to my bench, then asks -- in an initially hard to place accent -- "Didja hear the one about the priest and the nun in the desert?" I hadn't, so he elaborates (paraphrase follows):
This priest and nun were crossing the desert on a camel when the beastie suddenly dies. Reflecting upon their upcoming demise, the priest tells the nun he's never seen a woman's bare chest and asks the nun if he could look at hers. She reluctantly complies, then says she's never seen a man's genitals.
The priest happily unzips, only to have the nun ask "What's that?"
"This, sister," says the priest, "brings life."
"Well then stick it into the camel and let's get going."
Ah. This was followed by another "off-colour" such joke and some English-bashing and I'm finally able to determine this laddie's a Scot. We chat a couple minutes about his 20-plus years in Her Majesty's Navy and I grudgingly pat his dog. Ian by this point has climbed to the top of a small hill and is yelling in my direction, "Daddy, I'm ready to go now!" (No doubt wanting to visit the local Baskin-Robbins.)
I excuse myself, get thanked for "having a sense of humour, unlike some in these parts," and make my leave.
As I'm walking away, I make an assumption about his loyalties based on the Catholic jokes and exclaim, "Go Rangers!"