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An old Rangers supporter was lying dying, his family gathered tearfully around
his bed. He raised himself up on one elbow and called out for the younger of his
two sons.
'What is it Da? Is there somethin ye want?'
'Aye, son. Ah'm on the road oot noo. Away an get us a priest, will ye? Tell him
he's got a deathbed convert to take care of.'
The family gasped in shock. The son was the first to recover his breath.
'But Da ... you've always been a good Prod, and raised us the same . . . are ye
maybe a bit delirious or somethin?'
'Nane of yer cheek, boy! Are ye gauny deny ma dyin wish or dae as ye're telt?'
'If ye put it like that. . .' said the boy and, shaking his head in sorrowful
wonderment, he went off in search of a priest.
The older son asked the question that was on everyone's mind.
'Da, what's come ower ye? How can ye turn yer back on yer faith like this?'
'Listen, stupit. See once Ah'm a Tim? Ah'll be deid in no time.'
'Aye, so?'
'Well, that'll be wan less of the bastarts!'
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