Ireland, Saint Patrick's Day morning. Some are celebrating, some in church, some sleeping off the previous night's celebrations, and so on. Our hero, however, is out on the golf links getting in a round while it is quiet. This lad is really a dedicated golfer.
As I heard it, this was a very long story with much dialog in a Canadian's notion of an Irish accent, full of "sure and bigorra" and such. I'll give the short version.
When he drops his putt into the seventh hole, he hears a curse and a leprecaun's head pops out of the hole. He quickly reaches down and captures it. Of course, the leprechaun promises to grant a wish if he lets him loose. Our lad wants to be a better golfer. OK.
Next year, already the county champion, he's back, catches the leprechaun again, wants to be an even better golfer. The leprechaun tells him there might be side effects, but our lad considers golf too important to trifle with. The wish is granted.
Next year, champion of Ireland, he's back, wants the same wish again. The leprechaun says he cannot do it, the side effects might be too severe.
What side effects?
It might ruin your love life. Can you not see the effects already?
No, not at all.
Well, tell me then, how many times did you make love in the last month?
Twice.
Twice! A big strong lad like you, and handsome with it? That's dreadful.
Well, for a priest in a small parish with no car, it's not bad.