For a long time, the widely-accepted standard for racist jokes has bothered me a bit. The standard is this: that any joke exploiting a given racial or other group is okay to make, so long as it’s made by a member of said group.
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It’s not every day you count the beavers in between you and Arby’s. No. It’s not every day. But today is only one day, and today I did it. It started out real hard. I looked everywhere for the fuckers. Couldn’t find a single one. I figured, damn, there must be more than no beavers between where I am and Arby’s. Then I realized I was still in the bathtub.
Okay, flags of the world, listen up. A nation’s flag is supposed to be its unique identifying symbol, a collection of colors and insignia that define its people, what they stand for, and what they hope for. It is the banner that will brand their greatest accomplishments, it will be hoisted above their competitors on the world stage, and is the oriflamme they rally behind in times of war. Yet so many of y’all are pedestrian, similar, and uninspired. You fly behind the god damned presidents of the world, ya gotta shape up. July 12, 1919 Dear Mr. Chaplin, I just wanted to write to say how much of a fan I am of your work! Even here in Munich, whenever a poor paper-hanger like myself can scrap a few hundred thousand marks together, I can think of no better way to spend an afternoon than to watch you “tramp” about! A good joke, yes? I think I have a future as a writer, but am focusing on painting at the moment. I feel I just need a decisive look to define myself, and so I was writing to ask if I could use your trademark mustache to help with my own image?
They say I am dead. That I will never haunt the world again. That I shot myself in a bunker in Germany sixty years ago. What they don’t know is that I had a long-hidden twin brother who actually was the one who died, and that I learned the secrets of eating right and exercising. I have lived to see the ripe old age of 120. They also don’t know where I’ve been hiding, the one place no one has thought to look: Sentinel Island. From the smallest of the Andaman Islands, I shall attempt my comeback. For years, I thought I was off to a good start. I smacked these foolish islanders into a steely, unforgiving discipline. I have trained them to make unmotivated attacks on all outsiders. And though they have never met a Jew or Frenchman, they assure me that if they ever do, they will growl menacingly. The fabled woods of Nor are usually filled with the chirping of birds this time of year. Yet in the clearing near the Tree of Infinite Truths, no creature dare stir. Sitting upon the roots of the aged elm sits the Tree Guardian, a powerful dimension traveler, the wrinkles of his years resembling the sacred bark he rests his back against. Nature itself respects the elder’s meditation. I decided to see if my Tarot cards, collectively named Dexter (a deck named Dex, get it?), have a sense of humor. I asked him to make a joke by flipping over a card to create a set up, a card to elaborate the story, and then a card to act as punchline for three jokes. This is the result, which I have taken the liberty of interpreting using my clandestine powers of divination and comedy. I have an uncle. His name is Karl. His name is unimportant but I think it really says something about him. Karl. See what I mean. Anyway Karl’s job title is contractor. However, Karl’s job is to do no actual work, complain about things and use my aunt to get prescription painkillers. Good for Karl. Now that we have gotten to know Karl, it’s story time. This question has been eating at me for a long time, because you see, so many psychologists are Jewish, and Jewish people are hilarious. This logic is flawless. Except maybe for the fact that bankers and lawyers are not hilarious. Well, today we have another data point to add, since my Cognitive Brain Imaging professor decided to briefly address humor in class. (Although, I’m pretty sure he’s a goy, being the exception that proves the rule.) In Part I, I discussed how writers of television shows, books, and films often write with diametrically-opposing agendas. Today, I’m gonna use the exact same formula, because unlike Leonard Nimoy, I’m not a flip-flopper.
The worst thing about him is that he is fucking uncreative. We were attacked on September 11th. What did they call it? “September 11th”. We went to war in Iraq. What did they call it? “The War in Iraq”. In World War II, the attack that launched the war was called “Pearl Harbor” and “A Day that will Live in Infamy”, not “December 7th”. The Holocaust was called “The Holocaust”, not “That One Time when All Those Jews Died”. |
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