Attempts at Humor

by zunguzungu

Being a little sick, being a lot behind on my grading, and having an institutional molehill looming like a mountain on the horizon in front of me, I got nothing for you, whoever you are that reads this blog. So here’s some jokes I wrote ages ago that a friend unearthed from his gmail account, probably Aegean style, with a stream.

The first:

Two beautiful women walk into a bar and sit down. The bartender walks over and asks “Can I get you ladies a drink?” The first women says “For me, vodka martini, and for my friend, double entendre.” The bartender responds “Double entendre?! I don’t even know her.” Then the harlots are stoned and their rotting corpses left for the crows.

The second requires a little more explanation. Imagine it’s August 28th, the day before Hurricane Katrina happened. Imagine that a friend of yours (with whom you used to play paper-rock-scissors for who went to get coffee when you had adjacent cubicles) has just moved to New Orleans. Imagine that there’s been a lot of talk about “the big one” and about how all shit is going to break loose, and imagine that you — not having any idea what a hurricane is like or can do — decide to have some fun. Imagine you send that friend the following email, making light of the situation. Imagine he and his family receive this email while being evacuated from their homes en route to being stuck in crappy student housing in Baton Rouge for an interminable period of time.

Hey Stanwyck Von Cleefurgh’churh,
I just want to say its been great knowing you, and I hope when you’re in heaven, you’ll send some good thoughts my way. Now I know your demise isn’t certain, exactly, but since I feel pretty confident that in a few short hours the entire state of Louisiana will float out into the gulf, perhaps pinball off Cuba and maybe make it as far as Martinique before sinking you to a watery grave, I want to take this opportunity to make a clean breast of it. I cheated at Paper, Rock, and Scissors. Yes, its true. You see, as you were writing papers, you would frequently go into a trancelike state of intense concentration, allowing me to hypnotically suggest which hand to throw and ensure for myself an uninterrupted flow of coffee. I may have also “suggested” to you that, during class, you talk to your female students’ chests and put your hand on your male students’ thighs during conferences, without, of course, your being able to remember any of it.
It was my intention to tell you all this at your wedding, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. But now that I know you will soon be perishing in terrible agony, I feel relieved enough to tell the truth. Hopefully we can let the healing begin. Well, when I say we, I obviously mean I, since you’ll soon be crushed to bits under a torrential flood of petro-chemical polluted stormwater, but I feel confident that someday I’ll be able to look back at this and laugh. Give my best to Marguerite Von Cleefurgh’churh, and God if you have the chance, Aaron

I’d imagine you’d feel like kind of a shit-head, too. But, it turns out, I can look back at it and laugh! And I’m glad the Von Cleefurgh’churh’s can as well.