Here Comes the Sun

Note: This post was a “sticky” feature for Fundraising Week, and was at the top throughout that time. Newer items from Monday through Sunday, including Sunday night’s news feed, are posted below it.

Summer Fundraiser 2017, Day Seven

Update from Dymphna: And Then They Rested — Day Seven

Each fundraiser has its own rhythm and rhyme. This one took a while to get going but then the jokes (and donations) started coming in at a good clip. The donations are crucial to our ongoing project here, but I now realize that laughter is indeed good medicine. I’ve even gone looking for jokes this week, just for the fun of it. From now on the theme of our Quarterlies will be jokes. More than ever do we need laughter to keep going.

Tip jarThe Baron keeps a careful log/graph of donations through each and every quarter going all the way back to the first Fundraiser in 2008. There was one year — I forget which — where we simply missed a quarter entirely. We simply forgot to ask for money, and yes, that inattention on our part did indeed pinch; the consequence was a period of beans but no ammo. We didn’t make that mistake again.

Sometimes events push these fundraisers early or late: who wants to compete with a presidential election or Christmas The Winter Gala Season?? But mostly we’re on time if a little breathless. Even then, y’all inevitably come through, for which we remain most grateful. When you’re depending on the largesse of donors, nothing ever becomes routine or taken for granted.

For those of you who’ve been procrastinating, there’s the tip cup on the sidebar to the left of my words. And for our readers who not only subscribe but give extra during the Fundraisers, you are atop the pyramid for sure, up there with those genius DNA folks.

Now for my joke, especially for the Baron and serendipitously sent in by Col. Bunny. [I was considering doing one on virgins, given the Aztec image the Baron chose for this post. Maybe next time.]

A fellow consults his rabbi.

“Rabbi,” he says, “my cow is useless. She won’t show any interest in the bull.”

“Give me an example,” says the rabbi.

“Well, if the bull approaches her, she moves away to the left. And if he approaches her again, she moves away to the right. This goes on forever.”

“Hmm,” says the rabbi. “Is your cow from Minsk, by any chance?”

“Why, yes,” says the farmer. “How did you know?”

“My wife is from Minsk,” says the rabbi.

Heh. That’s my Bleg gift to the Baron. Better than a bag of cashews; jokes don’t cause weight gain.

Thanks to all you generous readers, including the ones who are bypassing PayPal to send their donations by snail mail. You have to go out of your way to do that… and, yes, you lurking IRS employee, the mail donations go down on our income, you gummint busybody.

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The locations of Saturday’s donors:

Stateside: Illinois, Michigan, New Jersey, New York, and Texas

Far Abroad: New Zealand

Canada: Newfoundland, Quebec, and Saskatchewan

Australia: Queensland, and Victoria

Saturday’s update from the Baron:

Here we are at Day Six already — the fundraiser’s almost over. Dymphna will be doing the final day tomorrow.

These are difficult financial times, but even so, a gratifying number of generous people have dug into their pockets and sent in their gifts — we thank you all for your largesse. Every quarter it’s always a pleasant surprise to find that there are so many of you out there.

The week’s not done yet, but from the look of how it’s going, we’re probably going to be OK for yet another quarter.

And for readers who are new to our fundraiser: there’s a donation button as well as a tip cup on the sidebar of our main page. Clicking one of those leads to the donate page. For those who would like to sign up for a monthly subscription instead, click the “subscribe” button.

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As you may recall, the theme of this week’s bleg is Jokes.

The day before yesterday I posted a list of punch lines for jokes that are too naughty to be told here. But there are other reasons why I can’t tell all my best jokes in this space. The need for audio, for one thing: the “No Good Jews Coming From Minsk” joke absolutely requires that it be told in a ridiculous phony Russian accent. If you can’t hear that, the impact of the joke is completely lost.

And then there’s the joke about the West Virginia Vasectomy. Not only is it too naughty to tell here, I can’t tell it except in person, because it includes mimed actions and requires a prop. Which is too bad, because it’s hilarious.

By the way: over the past fifty years West Virginians have gradually supplanted Polacks as the favored ethnic group for Americans to make fun of for their supposed stupidity. Eventually they’ll probably form the Hillbilly Liberation Front or something similar and march on Washington to demand an end to all the racist hate directed at them. Maybe by then there will be enough robots around that we can make fun of them instead — until the Robot Anti-Defamation League becomes powerful enough to shut us up, that is.

My final ha-ha of the week is another Soviet joke, possibly the best of them all. We’ve posted it before, but it bears retelling. It’s better told in person, so that you can hear the fake Russian accent, but it still works in print.

It was already dated the first time I heard it — Brezhnev was gone, Gorbachev was in, and the milieu that gave the joke its impact was fading into history. Nowadays only old fogeys like me appreciate this joke. So, for all you readers of a certain age, here it is:

Stalin, Khrushchev, and Brezhnev are riding together in the compartment of a train. The train is traveling across the empty steppe when it suddenly stops, for no apparent reason, in the middle of nowhere.

After twenty minutes of tapping his fingers impatiently on the arm of his seat, Stalin gets up and leaves the compartment. When he returns a few minutes later, he says, “Problem is solved: engineer has been shot.”

He sits down, but still the train does not move. The three of them stare out the window at the motionless steppe for a while longer, and then Khrushchev gets up and leaves the compartment. When he returns, he says, “Problem is solved: engineer has been posthumously rehabilitated.”

He sits down. The train remains motionless. Finally, after half an hour, Brezhnev gets up, pulls down the shade, and says, “Problem is solved: train is moving.”

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Yesterday’s generous gifts came in from:

Stateside: California, Connecticut, Florida, Illinois, Maine, Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, Texas, Virginia, and Washington

Far Abroad: Germany and the UK

Canada: British Columbia and Ontario

Australia: Victoria

Dymphna will be along with the last of the ho-ho-ho this time tomorrow.

Update from Dymphna for Day Five: Beware the Bandersnatch

I’m outta the Dismal Swamp in which I was foundering the day before yesterday, Deo gratias. But I swan, time just flies when there’s a new malady every single livelong day. Makes getting up in the morning an adventure. Sort of.

I’d like just 24 hours without some new/old tribulation raising its head, like an ugly and Bandersnatch just waiting to pounce. Or slither. Or creep. However, today’s plague isn’t so bad, considering. I’ve left the doldrums of dysphoria far behind and since I was last here have sailed on into a stormy migraine and out to the sunset calm of the other side. That’s the great thing about migraines: when they quit, there’s some euphoria in the limp aftermath. Nonetheless, this is getting downright tedious.

Even more tedious would be the explanation for all my maladies. I’ll save it for the end of the bleg so I can go on with my job right now — a plea for donations: we need more beans, ammo and petrol. Plus, the Baron bought life insurance to replace the more expensive term life I’d had when he was a working stiff. That policy ran out in March. They insist on a physical when you apply for a new one and our insurance man called the B to pass on what the underwriter said: she’d never seen such a healthy low score for someone his age. I wasn’t surprised: the man is still climbing trees to cut branches. Lucky dog!

Getting my mojo back by begging for money works well. And when it’s followed by jokes — all the better. Maybe that ought to be our regular theme; we’ll get better at it as time goes on. Think of it: the Quarterly Joke-athon Fundraiser.

I realize I need to laugh more; it really does release endorphins and lower pain. Max, one of our commenters, left a few links to silly You Tube videos. Some show called “The Possum Lodge”? At any rate, the one I watched (I’ll get to the others) seemed to be Canadian humor; many variations on three men not talking about sex. Their antics reminded me of the “research” some years ago that claimed men thought about sex about every nine seconds. Even at the time, I wondered how they did the research and how they came up with such a low number. Nine seconds, my sécateurs!

Speaking of men I like, has the Baron mentioned our video man, Vlad Tepes? Our stalwart video man. I love Vlad’s sense of humor and I love his dog. They are fortunate companions for one another. At any rate, we tithe our donations to Vlad’s enterprise, since he gives us a wealth of material all the time. He and the B have become staunch friends over the years, which is all to the good. When one is tied to a website for much of each day, it is a beneficence to have a friend next to you on the bench, also pulling a similar oar.

Those endorphins again — the Baron sometimes leaves his office to tell me a not-suitable-for-work funny he and Vlad dreamed up, and it’s usually a variation on guy stuff, but funny anyway. Think Dave Barry, only not as well-paid. I like guy humor.

Anyway, Vlad has to buy techie stuff for his videos, plus the usual expenses of web-hosting fees and firewalls and ammo and beans. Not to mention dog food. All more expensive in urban areas.

One of my favorite parts of each fundraiser is sending his tithe to Vlad. Since it’s every three months, he never remembers the transfer is coming, so I title it “Funny Munny” just to remind him. I used to torture him by making him write a thank-you note I could post, but it became problematic quickly… no need to make him suffer any further. Those Canadian jornolists are stressing him to the max without my help.

Here’s my joke for this fifth day. It’s my litmus-test joke. If you grok why it’s funny, or if it just makes you laugh, then you have an inborn funny bone. If it leaves you scratching your head, you might be a Leftist.

Just sayin’, y’all. Check your pants.

The Russian Horse

A Russian guy was walking down a back street in Moscow, and saw a sign above a door that read: “See the talking horse, only 50 kopecks.” His curiosity was aroused, so he dug out a coin, paid the doorkeeper, and went on in.

Inside there was a brightly-lit raised platform surrounded by a rope barrier, kind of like a boxing ring. Around it were rows of seats where scattered spectators watched the platform expectantly.

On the platform under the bright lights was an old, tired, mangy-looking horse, half-heartedly nibbling from a nose-bag.

Nothing happened. That horse wasn’t saying word one. After fifteen minutes or so the crowd started muttering and booing. Someone threw an empty vodka bottle at the platform, where it bounced off the ropes and broke on the floor, to lie with the others thrown earlier.

Then a man came out of the backstage area carrying a two-by-four. He climbed up on the platform and gave the horse a good hard whack upside the head. There was a long, freighted silence in which the horse failed to react.

Finally, the horse turned his head slowly toward the audience and said in a mournful voice, “Why can’t I just die?”

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OMG! The B just came down to tell me the latest news. It’s so creepily funny, I had to include it here. And it’s true, even better: it seems that Nancy Pelosi, the venerable Congresscreature from California delivered herself of a new solecism — or whatever you’d call it. A little background here: most Americans are familiar with Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes’ famous quote that “you can’t shout fire in a crowded theatre”. (That was 1919 and has since been overturned). Well, today the Honorable Dingbat Nancy Pelosi said the Constitution does not give you “the right to cry wolf in a crowded theater”…

Here’s the 19-second video:

She’s stupidly wrong, by the way: tell your daughter that if some strange letch in the seat next to her in that crowded theatre is putting his hand up her dress, by all means cry “WOLF! WOLF! HELP!” Whatever it takes…

I sure hope someone is collecting Pelosi’s malapropisms. Like the one where she mixed up North Korea and Afghanistan.

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Good news! The pace picked up today, and more donations came in. Thanks to everyone who tipped that cup. And after my superlative Russian joke, I’m hoping there will be even more tomorrow.

Thursday’s donations rolled in from:

Stateside: Arkansas, California, Florida, Georgia, New Hampshire, New York, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, and Texas

Far Abroad: Bulgaria, Italy, Lithuania, and New Zealand

Australia: Western Australia

Thursday’s update from the Baron:

Well, here we are in Day Four of the Quarterly Bleg, more than halfway through. This week’s theme is jokes; that is, the telling of them. Dymphna veered off topic yesterday morning — the German-Polish food fight in the comments had gotten her down, and dampened her joking mood. We’ll get back on track this morning with some jokes, but first a reminder of why we’re here.

This site is a distributed operation, with lots of people contributing their individual efforts to the larger endeavor. It’s the same with the donors — lots of generous folks who send in a modest portion of their hard-earned money to help keep the core of the operation going.

We don’t have any corporation or foundation behind us to fund a fully-equipped top-of-the-line website and pay for a staff to keep it running. Which is great — we have no one to clamp down on us when we say “racist” or “xenophobic” things. But it also means we have to scrabble for the wherewithal to continue with our rampant Islamophobia from year to year.

Therefore, if you consider what we do here important, and want to make sure it continues, please go over to the sidebar of our main page and click on the tip cup.

We welcome donations throughout the quarter, but we only bug you about them for one week out of every thirteen. We make ourselves annoying all through that week, but then we shut up for the rest of the quarter!

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Now for the jokes — two of them, and then a special section on punch lines.

The first joke is another venerable Soviet artifact. As I’ve said many times before, Soviet jokes are always the best. I got this one from Walt Kelly, in a Pogo book published back in the 1950s. God only knows where he got it:

Two peasants are trudging across the tundra in Siberia, and happen upon the tracks of the Trans-Siberian Railway. One of them says with great fervor: “Oh, if only we had a loaf of bread, we could commit suicide!”

The other one is perplexed, and responds: “I understand that we could lie down on the tracks to commit suicide. But why the loaf of bread?”

The first one replies, “You could starve to death waiting for a train in this country!”

The second is a non-Soviet joke. It’s more modern, but still dated, because its context includes the wearing of beepers — remember those? From the 1990s — before the age of ubiquitous hand-held devices:

A little boy and his dad are standing in line at McDonalds. Directly in front of them is a woman of impressive girth, with a beeper on her belt.

In a normal conversational tone the boy says to his father, “Dad, look at that lady, she’s so fat!”

Mortified, his dad hisses at him: “Ssshhh! Don’t say that; you’re being rude!”

“But Dad, she’s HUGE!”

“Hush!” says his father sternly.

At that point the woman’s beeper goes off loudly.

The little boy yells in alarm: “Watch out, Dad! She’s backing up!”

Finally, for a change of pace, here are some punch lines for jokes that are too naughty to be told on a PG-13 site:

1.   Oh my God, Big John’s dead!
2.   Well, then, buy yerself a thre’p’ny teacake.
3.   Yes, I did, but it kept leakin’ out the lace-’oles.
4.   I couldn’t, it were all in one lump!
5.   Doc say, “You gone die.”

I learned all of them when I was a teenager in the 1960s. Nos. 2 through 4 are from Yorkshire, and are meant to be told in broad dialect.

I wonder if anyone besides me remembers the jokes that go with them…

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Wednesday’s generosity arrived from:

Stateside: Alaska, California, Connecticut, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Michigan, Nevada, New Mexico, New York, Texas, Virginia, and Washington

Far Abroad: Israel, and the UK

Australia: Australian Capital Territory

Wednesday’s update from Dymphna: Day Three in the Sun’s Shadow

It takes longer to get into the swing of the fundraisers than it used to… which is not the fault of the venue. Our donors remain generous and open-handed. But it’s been a rough three months since we Last Danced This Soft Shoe Routine, and the skies are even darker than they were.

Saint Baron, bless him, remains steadfast and true. His work is impeccable and continues to improve. He remains a joy.

Today, he went for his free, brave-new-world-socialist-medicine annual physical. No, he wouldn’t have bothered if they charged for it. The doctor was surprised that he’s not on any medications at his age. Nada. Just the vitamin and mineral supplements I researched for him when he developed wet macular degeneration — which has resolved thanks to the anti-angiogenesis treatments available now. He is so very fortunate his eye malady didn’t happen five years ago before they developed this treatment. [I often think, had van Gogh lived he’d surely have gone blind in that blazing sun of Provence. Just as the B did here for decades, Vincent went out in the sun every day, devoutly painting. It was their mutual vocation, Vincent to slather onto canvas every cypress in Provence, the B to portray with more economy every cedar in central Virginia. The difference being that Vincent’s brother Theo paid for his supplies.]

For me, during this particular Octave of Beating The Drum for money, the donation cup stretched out into the ether, is hard. Harder than usual. This one — my idea — is supposed to be about humor and wit during parlous times — and yes, the jokes have been funny (and the money has been real) but inconveniently, I’ve fallen into a hole. Again.

Here’s what the Baron observed in 2005, and it’s come ’round again:

The Love Song of Anne Hedonia

I vow that I will learn to love Dysphoria:
You surely will become my latest craze!
The question must be: How do I adore you?
It’s too much work for me to count the ways.

So here’s to misery! I salute you,
A succotash of suffering to behold,
And pray that no morsel of joy pollute you,
Nor ever turn my woeful lead to gold.

Bring on the armies of lugubriation!
Each gloomy foe I will embrace as friend,
And so await with dread anticipation
The melancholic dirge that knows no end.

My head is in the sand. My ass is in a sling.
Discomfort, ‘tis of thee! Of thee I sing.

It’s a drag on my soul when there are protracted food fights in the comments — why can’t we all just get along? Ah, me. I am entering The Silence. I hate this period, when my mind mutes itself.

Instead of my joke, here’s a bit of musical observation from fifty or so years ago. And it’s still relevant:

The Merry Minuet

by the Kingston Trio

They’re rioting in Africa
They’re starving in Spain
There’s hurricanes in Florida
And Texas needs rain
The whole world is festering with unhappy souls
The French hate the Germans
The Germans hate the Poles
Italians hate Yugoslavs
South Africans hate the Dutch
And I don’t like anybody very much.

But we can be tranquil and thankful and proud
For man’s been endowed with a mushroom-shaped cloud
And we know for certain that some lucky day
Someone will set the spark off and we will all be blown away

They’re rioting in Africa
There’s strife in Iran
What nature doesn’t do to us
Will be done by our fellow man.

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On that cheerful note — Tuesday’s donors hailed from:

Stateside: Colorado, Michigan, New Jersey, Texas, and West Virginia

Far Abroad: Ireland, New Zealand, and the UK

Canada: Ontario and Saskatchewan

Australia: Victoria

Tuesday’s update from the Baron:

We’re roaring into the second day of our summer fundraiser — many thanks to all the generous people who have sent in contributions.

Dymphna has already explained what we’re doing, but I’ll outline it again, just in case you’re a new reader who missed the earlier explanation. This one-week quarterly bleg is how we fund the operation of this site. And expenses have risen, unfortunately: as many of you know, we had to move up notch in server capacity earlier this year, due to increased traffic. An additional layer of expense is needed to provide security, because we, like most dissident sites, are subject to DDoS and other forms of attack.

This isn’t the only source of income for us, but it’s the largest one, so you’re helping us get by when you donate. And somehow, for almost ten years, we’ve managed to get by. It seems unlikely, and providential, and we’re very gratified by the willingness of our readers to help out.

One other thing I need to mention: we tithe to Vlad Tepes for his invaluable contributions in the video department. Gates of Vienna wouldn’t have nearly the breadth and reach it does without Vlad’s videos, so we send 10% of what you give us to Vlad. If you want to increase that amount, Vlad has a donate button of his own at his site.

And now for the jokes. Dymphna made my job easy this quarter by coming up with the idea of doing jokes every day.

I’ll tell you a couple this morning. The first one is a vintage Soviet joke — Soviet jokes are always the best:

A flock of sheep hurried up to the Soviet side of a border outpost with Finland and bleated urgently to be allowed through.

“Help, help!” cried the lead sheep. “The KGB is rounding up all the chickens and sending them to Siberia! Please let us in!”

“Faugh!” replied the border guard skeptically. “You’re not chickens — you’re sheep.”

“Hah!” said the sheep. “You try telling that to the KGB!”

The second joke is non-Soviet:

The ego and the superego walked into a bar. Each of them ordered a beer. The bartender said, “Let’s see some id.”

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Monday’s donors wandered in from:

Stateside: California, Georgia, Illinois, Maryland, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Washington, and Wyoming

Far Abroad: Finland, Germany, the Netherlands, New Zealand, Sweden, Thailand, and the UK

Australia: New South Wales

Dymphna’s post from Monday:

The time for our Summer Quarterly Fundraiser has arrived, eclipsed though our opening day event may be by sun and moon dancing in partial tandem above us.

That solar eclipse is mercifully shorter (who wants to sit through a week of semi-strange twilight?) than Gates of Vienna’s Summer Octave. And it’s certainly more exciting to experience heavenly portents…as long as you live in the right place, which we mostly do. We won’t get the full monty, but enough (89% or so) to make it worth our while to go outside and not look up at the sun. Isn’t it fortunate you live in a place where you can experience our Fundraiser? Yes, I thought so.

As many others have done, The B made a pinhole box for viewing. Moi? I plan to sit under the hickory tree and watch the changing patterns filtered through the leafy shade. I will see many eclipses, not just one. But whether it’s a pinhole image or images in leafy shadows, we’re all reduced by the power of the Sun to some version of sitting in Plato’s Cave if we want to be safe.

It turns out there is more than one Plato’s Cave in which to hunker down and scare yourself: some otherwise normal people are claiming this eclipse is racist. No, I’m not making that up, but I did hurt myself when I fell down laughing. Perhaps I should sue…

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Old-timers at Gates of Vienna know that we deeply depend on these quarterly fundraisers to underwrite our time and effort here. When we were kicked off Pajamas Media back in 2008 for being racist, we had to hunt around for revenue. Back then we asked if y’all preferred to see ads on the sidebar, or if you’d rather contribute to our continued existence. “NO ADS!” won hands-down. Ever since then you’ve contributed every quarter — hitting the tip cup on our sidebar with amazing regularity — to the cause of keeping us fed and sheltered.

You don’t fund vacations; our time with you precludes our leaving town. And we don’t do iPods or cell phones or whatever gizmos it is people use while walking down the street. There’s no cell coverage here and the B can’t see those small screens. Besides, the work at Gates of Vienna long ago became far more than a job; it is not something from which we need a “break”. Such might be the case if we didn’t have all the comments, but our readers are vastly entertaining and often informative.

We don’t eat out anymore. Most restaurant food is pedestrian, plus being full of hydrogenated fats and low-nutrition carbs and mystery ingredients. We keep saying we’ll go out to eat but we never do. [Now that Bezos has snapped up Whole Foods we’ll probably go elsewhere for non-manufactured meats. There are several small “health food” stores that sell what we need.]

No new clothing needed for this job, either. The Baron’s office clothing, bought more than a decade ago, is still serving him well. When you only need one Sunday-go-to-meeting suit (serves for weddings and funerals as well), then this becomes a simple category.

Hmmm… I realize I no longer know what else people do with their time and money. TV? Movies? No… we don’t have a TV. I thought when we got into this we’d be watching new movies, but we’ve left that world behind, too. Compared to real-life events, movies are tediously predictable. We depend on the future Baron to alert us to anything worthwhile, but commenters are welcome to chime in on the Newsfeed. How do people find the time for TV??

The Baron always hesitates on letting me do the first of these Quarterly Fundraising posts, with good reason. I often forget to talk about finances, which is their whole point. Just so you know: this is indeed about the money, but let’s enjoy the process, hmm?

Meanwhile, back in what passes for the real world, these be dire times indeed for the Dissident Right (as opposed to Conservatism, Inc. which lives in the pockets of the Left while pretending to be elsewhere). Those of us with traditional views on citizenship, nation, family, even what constitutes human life find ourselves belittled and besmirched by others who are ignorant of history or determined to smash the past in order to build a braver future. “Braver” for them, perhaps. We are surely bedeviled, as our opposition to the demonic forces of MarxCult draws the ire and fire of those who dwell in darkness, who act deceitfully and with malice aforethought to destroy what we value. To destroy it with impunity.

Meanwhile regular folks continue to live their lives as if nothing untoward were happening, or as if it’s still safe to vocalize their opposition to the combined forces of our Evil Institutions. If you never pass beyond the boundaries of close family, you’re safe. Except that even families have fractured on political lines now. Thus everything, even a natural event, is open to politicization. It’s insane, as though the crazed ghosts of the French Revolution have come to infest our once-free country. You know the place is in deep do-do when smashing icons becomes a frenzied pastime.

That business in Charlottesville was a definite hinge point, but we can’t yet see ’round the corner of the future to discern fully what follows… or what follows after what follows. We know the radical Left (there doesn’t seem to be any other kind now) owns the microphone. It’s busy assembling virtual guillotines, but we can’t tell how many of us will fall victim to Goolag’s vindictive self-righteousness. It seems likely we will be forced to build alternate channels for information. Or perhaps those alternatives will be mau-maued into submission, too. Will our fate be more like South Africa’s, or will it fall more closely toward to Russia’s experience of tyranny? Whichever way it goes, America will become even more culturally impoverished. At least it will until such time as people reclaim responsibility for their own lives and situations.

In the meantime, we have a fundraiser to put on. Our theme was decided last month. We always spend a bit of time thinking this over, and back then we settled on humor as our unifying topic. Of course, since we’re curmudgeons, what is “humorous” becomes the final decision of GoV’s moderators. We’re ultimately responsible for what is published here and we guard that responsibility despite the cries of “censorship”…

It is now more important than ever to laugh. If we don’t develop some Russian fatalism, we’re all doomed to desperation. So kick back a bit, relax, and send us your jokes. What kind of jokes? Anything that’s a safe target. Men’s jokes about women’s foibles are fine, as are women’s tales on men. The battle of the sexes is best carried out on the playing fields of Humor. Or Humour. Keep your wits about you, boyos.

Blond jokes are fine, as are most ethnic jokes. It’s open season on religion — have a go. Given my heritage, I love Irish jokes and plan on telling a few old chestnuts, like the one which explains why God invented poteen. Russian jokes are finely honed, sometimes subtle but nearly always fatalistic. I love them.

There is one particular Russian story that I was in the habit of using as a litmus test for real friendship. If my interlocutor didn’t get it, I’d explain, but they went down on the B List; that’s the group of people you like otherwise but know you have to trim your sails when in their presence. Now that I think of it, they were mostly liberals. Authentic conservatives deeply comprehend the essence of life as essentially imperfect and often tragic.

But no jokes that demean, or rather, that would make the average person feel diminished. The overly sensitive won’t grok the humor, but there’s no point in dumbing down wit and sensibility for, say, a group of people who find the motto “Don’t Be Evil” to be deep and meaningful. Those folk are humor-challenged.

I knew the world was in for a heap o’ trouble when I was told of Goolag’s motto. It is just plain wrong on so many levels but those three words sum up The Ugly Giant’s destructive effect on everyone, including their employees. How can they be so deeply ignorant about the rules of communication? It would be funny if Google weren’t so powerful. It’s unfortunate that none of them took a semester or so on Thomas Aquinas. Or neurolinguistics. Breathtaking ignorance.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Ride with us for the coming week. Bring along your jokes and funny stories. To start us off, here’s one from my email last week. A twofer, men and Irishmen. I noticed when it came in on the 15th of this month that it had been forwarded many times, beginning all the way back in April…

Murphy Goes to Paris

Murphy, a furniture dealer from Dublin, wanted to expand the line of furniture in his store, so he decided to go to Paris to see what he could find.

After arriving in Paris, he visited some manufacturers and selected a line that he thought would sell well back home. To celebrate the new acquisition, he decided to visit a small bistro and have a glass of wine.

As he sat enjoying his wine, he noticed that the small place was quite crowded and that the other chair at his table was the only vacant seat in the house.

Before long, a very beautiful young Parisian girl came to his table. She asked him something in French (which Murphy could not understand), so he motioned to the vacant chair and invited her to sit down.

He tried to speak to her in English, but she did not speak his language. After a couple of minutes of trying to communicate with her, he took a napkin and drew a picture of a wine glass and showed it to her. She nodded, so he ordered a glass of wine for her.

After sitting together at the table for a while, he took another napkin, and drew a picture of a plate with food on it, and she nodded. They left the bistro and found a quiet cafe that featured a small group playing romantic music.

They ordered dinner, after which he took another napkin and drew a picture of a couple dancing. She nodded, and they got up to dance. They danced until the cafe closed and the band was packing up.

Back at their table, the young lady took a napkin and drew a picture of a four-poster bed.

To this day, Murphy has no idea how she figured out he was in the furniture business.

[Yes, it’s permissible to groan.]

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141 thoughts on “Here Comes the Sun

  1. For the fundraiser!!!


    Please DO NOT – I repeat – DO NOT use the $1 – $2 – $50 or the $100 bills.

    They have pictures of former slave owners on them! Send them all to me and I will dispose of them properly!

    DO NOT just throw them away.

    They need to be disposed of properly and I am certified to do so.

    Send a Private Message to me if you need my mailing address.

    We must get these out of circulation immediately.

    Thank you for your cooperation.

    • This man is obviously a fraudulent certified currency disposer. Any actual certified currency disposer, like me, would tell you $50s and $100s are okay and it is the $20s you need to worry about

      • This two previous commenters are obviously frauds. I am the only one who can safely dispose racist banknotes and for added convenience, I accept electronic payments. Use your VISA and MasterCards to get rid of your supremacist money!

    • This is cute, but sadly it plays into the globalist war to eliminate cash, which would make it easier for them to tax everyone, raise taxes, and confiscate everyone’s money on a whim.

  2. Three contractors are bidding to fix a broken fence at the White House. One is from Chicago, another is from Tennessee, and the third is from Minnesota. All three go with a White House official to examine the fence. The Minnesota contractor takes out a tape measure and does some measuring, then works some figures with a pencil. “Well,” he says, “I figure the job will run about $900. $400 for materials, $400 for my crew, and $100 profit for me.” The Tennessee contractor also does some measuring and figuring, then says, “I can do this job for $700. $300 for materials, $300 for my crew, and $100 profit for me.” The Chicago contractor doesn’t measure or figure, but leans over to the White House official and whispers, “$2,700.” The official, incredulous, says, “You didn’t even measure like the other guys! How did you come up with such a high figure?” The Chicago contractor whispers back, “$1000 for me, $1000 for you, and we hire the guy from Tennessee to fix the fence.” “Done!” replies the government official. And that, my friends, is how the new stimulus plan will work.

  3. I did not realize Americans had Irish jokes too. In Britain, there are obvious and dishonorable historical reasons for English making the paddies the butt but in America (and other Anglo colonies) all that historical baggage is not there. Indeed, Irish have always been highly regarded in America, haven’t they?
    Sorry I haven’t done a joke.

    • Then here you go!

      Pat and Mike are sitting under a tree and cogitating together. After some reflection Mike says to Pat, “Say Paddie, I think if I should go first, when I die it would be fine idea if you were to pour a pint of fine Irish whiskey over me grave.”
      Pat thinks about this idea for a moment and then replies, “Aye Mikey, it would…but do yer mind if I strain it through me kidneys first?”

      So D is wondering where our money goes…gasoline, ammo, booze, food, paint and power tools, in no particular order.

      This is an appropriate time to remind readers to go through GoV to make their Amazon purchases. Pennies do add up, and I spend a lot more than pennies at Amazon.

      • Yes. I remember that one. And then the oldest Irish joke of all:

        Why did God invent whiskey?
        To keep the Irish from taking over the world.

        Oh, yeah, paint. For our yellow house.
        Ammo is good.
        The B drinks cheap wine when the bottle is recommended by the future Baron, who studied to be a sommelier. He gave it up when he found you really have to be in the food services industry full-time, but he did pass the first several tests. And he’s a walking encyclopedia on vintages/countries. IIRC, he recommended Chile’s wines generally. Of course he and the B are reds. I like white, but not much. Too much spray used on commercial grapes. I know they have to do it, but I don’t want the poisons…I’ll take moonshine made with non-GMO corn.

        Thanks for shopping Amazon from our page. Over the course of a year, it adds up. I just bought a new by=pass pruner cuz I lost the one the B liked. I used our reader-generated gift certificate plus the huge reduction on a lightning deal…

        Gasoline is so cheap now…and it will probably continue to drop since the US is drilling more.

        As the Left gears up its hate machine, I’m wondering if we ought to get some kind of alarm system. I mean I wonder if it would lower our house insurance premium. Putting in deadbolts had that effect. Who knew?; perhaps alarms would, too. What saved the most money was installing central air and getting rid of the woodstove (years ago when my mother came to live with us and certainly couldn’t shuffle out to the kitchen to keep warm. Our summers would have killed her). Electric heat and air also turned out to be cheaper for many years. Until the duct work I’d conscientiously replaced fell off of some of the vents. ‘Twas expensive to repair and we definitely bid goodbye to the company who did the installation but felt no need to compensate us. Buh-bye.

        • Where angels fear, go I….Dymphna, B., fyi, should anyone be in love with the French classic grapes, and methods, remember, they brought their vines to Spain, during a French vine disease period, into the Rioja region, and the Spanish wines have the distinct French character, which to me is important in my reds, and whites, dry and tastefully French or Portuguese oaked, with care. One thing the French have generally not made mistakes upon.

          Chile and Cali are next in line for me, but that’s just me and my extensively developed wine tastes. Now, I’m a vegetarian, so matching is a new challenge, but no problem.

          Frankly, Dymphna, at my age, and already on careful, medical research backgrounded vegetarian diet, I’m far more worried about muslim interference in supply chain, as I trust not one bit of muslims, ever. Especially when it comes to living reasonably, and with all they hate (anything and everything)……the moors are on the coast, again….

          • A well-thought-out vegetarian diet is a good idea; they’ve been serving that at the ashram for 30 years or more and their older members look to be in fine shape. But not only would it be more work than I can do, a veg diet would not serve me well. Grains are not my friends and I can barely tolerate legumes, though I love them both.

            I would miss fish too much. Even our down-market local grocery store is carrying wild-caught fish, including salmon. They also have an increasing number of organic products, e.g., Muir’s fire-roasted diced or crushed tomatoes.

            We can buy local lamb, so we do eat it when it’s on sale. My body needs organ meats. Won’t buy Oz or NZ lamb: it’s mostly unmarked halal-slaughtered. But that’s no worse than America’s Big Meat factories that process half-rotten poultry and hormone-soaked beef. Processed by immigrants for in slave working conditions. They are unvetted State Dept and ORR “refugees” paid for by Big Meat. Many have TB, HIV, etc. Sick folks who drop to the floor on those assembly lines.

            We live in a rural area where you can go direct to the farmer for some things. I make my own chicken broth from organic bones and chicken feet. I am careful to get every last bit of nutrients from those bones, too.

  4. Thank you for your kind offer! I’ve got loads of those vile things under my mattress and can’t wait to get rid of them! Where do you want me to send them to?

  5. Off topic…Macron and the prune…BS

    [From admin: Off Topic comments go in the News Feed only. Please read the Commenting Guidelines]

  6. One day a long time ago, an English aristocrat in Ireland was motoring along when his attention wandered and he ran into a farmer and his mule, knocking them both into the ditch. He was charged with destruction of property (the mule) and aggravated assault on the farmer, resulting in a high claim of damages.. Questioned by the judge, he was honestly bewildered.
    “I did indeed hit the poor animal, and will be happy to replace it. When I got out of my automobile and went to where the animal was lying, I saw it had a broken leg, so I put the poor beast out of its misery. But when I asked that fellow there,” and he pointed to the farmer sitting across the room with a large cast on his leg, “he assured me he was fine.”
    “Well, Mr. O’Shea, did you say that?” asked the judge.
    “Yes, yer worship, I did an’ all, but I didn’t have no choice. Y’ see, I’m lyin’ there with a broke leg an’ here comes this feller and he looks at my poor mule and he says, ‘Well, his leg’s broke and he’s no good for nothing’ anymore’ an’ he pulls out this cannon and he blows the poor critter’s head off. An’ then he turns to me and says how am I–anything wrong? An’ I looks at him and I say,”I’m foine, yer honor, I’m just foine!”

  7. Well now ,this joke concerns the Fuhrerin Angela Merkel.

    Merkel was visiting Poland.
    The customs official asked “Name?”
    “Angela Merkel” said Merkel.
    “No No this time just a vacation only”answered Merkel

    • Hah!… or maybe Haj, it all depends…I had to struggle with that one, given the double meaning of “occupation”. And then the light went off! I groked it.

    • Well, here’s a funny trend:

      A mother has named her baby daughter Angela Merkel Muhammed – after the German Chancellor let her family into the country to start a new life.

      But she’s not the first new Angela Merkel – another baby was given the chancellor’s name by a family seeking asylum in the city of Duisburg in 2015.

      Last month, Canadian Prime Minister met a came face to face with a two-month-old boy who was named after him.
      The baby’s Syrian refugee parents named him Justin Trudeau Adam Bilan, who was born in in Alberta, western Canada.

    • That was the first German joke I’ve ever heard! And may never hear another….So how about an Irish joke instead.
      Three Irishmen walked out of a bar…

  8. Ricky: “Sam’s got this thing like a calculator, he can send information supposedly all over the world, I don’t know if he’s full of [£$%&] or what …”

    Julian: “Ricky, it’s the internet. Computers, the internet …”

    Ricky: [shrugs shoulders …]


  9. British readers may recall the satirical tv puppet show, “Spitting Image”. The sketch everyone remembers is of PM Maggie Thatcher in a restaurant with three of her cabinet ministers.

    Maggie: “I’ll have the steak.”
    Waiter: “What about the vegetables?”
    Maggie: “They’ll have the same.”

  10. Sheesh, the ignorance of some people. Here is a news alert from the Washington Times:

    Christopher Columbus monument in Baltimore smashed to combat ‘white supremacy’

    A monument to Christopher Columbus that was over 200 years old was smashed with a sledgehammer Monday morning to combat a “culture of white supremacy.”

    Those idjits didn’t know Cristoforo Colombo was Italian, not white.

    Just ask northern Europeans what they think of them southerners.

  11. A religious joke about money:
    A man is talking to God. “God, how long is a million years?”
    God answers, “To me, it’s about a minute.”
    “God, how much is a million dollars?”
    “To me, it’s a penny.”
    “God, may I have a penny?”
    “Wait a minute.”

  12. I didn’t know until now that Pajamas Media had terminated a relationship with Gates of Vienna.
    Let me know if you would rather not have me send Pajamas Media articles for new tips.

    • We don’t hold any significant animus towards PJM. Roger Simon did what he had to do — El Inglés’ piece was considered a bridge too far by the people he works with. But not by us, of course — I think it’s one of the best essays we’ve ever published. If you can’t play out all the awful possible (and likely) scenarios that lie ahead for the West, then what point is all the yap-yap? You might just as well discuss the latest on the Kardashians, or what Ivanka Trump is wearing today.

      More than ten years ago the lawyers for a certain Muslim public figure contacted Pajamas Media and demanded my real identity (this was before I had gone public), so that they could take legal action against me. PJM refused to do it. That’s why I don’t have anything bad to say about them. They did the right thing, even though it may have caused them difficulties.

      It was that incident that taught me to write more carefully, so as to avoid being actionable. To weigh every clause and phrase and make them bulletproof.

      Mind you, once the 16/18 rules become law, it will no longer be possible for me to make my writing bulletproof, so I’ll either have to give up this line of work or take my medicine.

  13. A man stumbles up to the only other patron in a bar and asks if he could buy him a drink. “Why of course,” comes the reply. The first man then asks: “Where are you from?” “I’m from Ireland,” replies the second man. The first man responds: “You don’t say, I’m from Ireland too! Let’s have another round to Ireland.” “Of Course,” replies the second man. Curious, the first man then asks: “Where in Ireland are you from?” “Dublin,” comes the reply. “I can’t believe it,” says the first man. “I’m from Dublin too! Let’s have another drink to Dublin.” “Of course,” replies the second man. Curiosity again strikes and the first man asks: “What school did you go to?” “Saint Mary’s,” replies the second man. “I graduated in ’65.” “This is unbelievable!,” the first man says. “I went to Saint Mary’s and I graduated in ’65, too!” About that time in comes one of the regulars and sits down at the bar. “What’s been going on?,” he asks the bartender. “Nothing much,” replies the bartender. “The O’Malley twins are drunk again.”

    • Yes. A very good chuckle on a number of levels. Having Ruth Bader Ginsburg gone from our midst, if only in that cartoon, lightens the load.

      • It wants a zip code and won’t accept the postal code. Maybe there is another way, I had no problem the last fundraiser.

  14. Question :Why did the Soviet police patrol in threes?
    Answer:One to write the reports,one to read the reports and one to keep an eye on the two intellectuals.

    • So that confirms the statistic that one in three Russians were illiterate under the Soviet rule.

    • And now for another Soviet era joke:

      Two men are fishing on the banks of the Elbe River–one on the east and one on the west. The man on the west has a full bucket of fish, and the man on the east can’t catch anything, no matter what bait he tries.

      Finally, he calls across to the man on the west bank:
      “How do you catch so many fish and I catch none?”

      His opposite number answers:
      “Over here, they’re not afraid to open their mouths.”

    • Why, every Soviet citizen had the right to come to Red Square, mount a soap box and say whatever they pleased.


  15. After they finish their beers ego needs to use the facilities. On his way to the rest rooms ego stumbles over the threshold to the restroom. The bartender puts it down as an ego trip.

  16. Paddy had been drinking at his local Dublin pub all day and most of the night celebrating St Patrick’s Day. Mick, the bartender says, ‘You’ll not be drinking anymore tonight, Paddy’. Paddy replies, ‘OK Mick, I’ll be on my way then’. Paddy spins around on his stool and steps off. He falls flat on his face. ‘Damn’ he says and pulls himself up by the stool and dusts himself off. He takes a step towards the door and falls flat on his face,

    ‘Damn, ‘Damn !’

    He looks to the doorway and thinks to himself that if he can just get to the door and some fresh air he’ll be fine. He belly crawls to the door and shimmies up to the door frame. He sticks his head outside and takes a deep breath of fresh air, feels much better and takes a step out onto the sidewalk and falls flat on his face.

    ‘By’Jeebers…. I’m a little crocked,’ he says.

    He can see his house just a few doors down, and crawls to the door, hauls himself up the door frame, opens the door and shimmies inside. He takes a look up the stairs and says ‘No damn’ way’. He crawls up the stairs to his bedroom door and says ‘I can make it to the bed’. He takes a step into the room and falls flat on his face He says ‘ Damn it ‘ and falls into bed.

    The next morning, his wife, Jess, comes into the room carrying a cup of coffee and says, ‘Get up Paddy. Did you have a bit to drink last night ?’

    Paddy says, ‘I did, Jess. I was really crocked But how’d you know?’

    ‘Mick phoned . . . you left your wheelchair at the pub

  17. For some reason this joke didn’t get posted the first time I submitted it.

    Pat and Mike were sitting under a tree taking an afternoon rest. After some reflection Pat says to Mike, “Mikey, I think it would be a fine idea, if I were to go first, if you were to pour a bottle of fine Irish whiskey over me grave.”

    After a moment’s thought, Mike replies, “Aye it would Paddie, but do yer mind if I strain it through me kidneys first?”

    • Another Irish joke.
      The Catholic priest in charge of a downtown Boston mission wakes up one morning and finds a dead donkey on the lawn.
      So he phones the police to ask them to investigate the matter and remove the carcass.
      Priest :This is Father Michael from St Mary and all Saints Mission ,there’s a dead donkey on our lawn.
      Constable “I thought the last rites were your department father ,not ours.”
      Priest :”Nonetheless we have a duty to inform the relatives and offer counselling and that is the purpose of my call”

  18. I’d love to see an option for donating in cryptocurrencies. Cheers for the good work.

  19. Thank you. The Kingston Trio brought back some childhood memories – like Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley – at least that is the group I remember singing it.

  20. OK, here’s a joke for all you intellectuals.

    Rene Descartes went into his local hostelry. The landlord said, “Evening, Monsieur Descartes, the usual?” Descartes said, “I think not!”, and disappeared.

  21. What a pleasant surprise — this compendium of jokes. You forget how much you need a laugh and then – voila – the great release. Thanks all.

  22. Ok, I made my little contribution. It will show Oklahoma, my current home but I work in the belly of the beast, Saudi Arabia. It seems appropriate to contribute. The site is blocked here, imagine that, and I have to use a VPN connection to read the posts. Keep up the good writing.

  23. Two cowboys were out on the prairie getting ready to bed down for the night when they heard Indian war drums over the bluff. One turned to the other and said “I don’t like the sound of those drums.”
    A few moments later a voice called back.
    “He’s not our regular drummer.”

    • Excellent! Orchestral musicians have jokes about the alleged stupidity of viola players:

      The players assemble for rehearsal; the manager says “The Maestro is ill; does anyone know the programme well enough to conduct the concert?” A violist says he does, and does so, to critical acclaim; the conductor is still too ill to take them on tour, so our hero fills in.

      Next rehearsal, he returns to his usual chair, and his deskmate says “Where have you been?”

  24. #5 has to do with a snake bite, the others I don’t recognize.

    BTW it was I who posted the Pat and Mike joke, I forgot to sign in. I’m rarely anonymous.

    The punch lines reminds me of a wedding reception I attended. It was a wedding for a Vietnamese friend of mine so I was seated at the “white people’s” table. Hey, they had to figure out the seating chart somehow…Anyway, they placed a bottle of cognac on each table, which was largely symbolic because Vietnamese folks generally arent’ big drinkers. But I was seated next to an old school chum and by God we opened our table’s bottle. After a few shots we were in the mood for some joke telling but most of the jokes that came to mind were dirty jokes. So as not to offend the others at the table we decided to share only punch lines, if the other didn’t recognize the joke (and there were only a few) we would share the joke in very low voices. After a while the other folks at the table, and to be fair one was Hispanic, asked what we were up to with our whispering. When we told them that we were sharing dirty jokes they all demanded to hear them as well. So our table spent the evening telling dirty jokes. I love weddings.

    And if anyone is taken back by the presence of a white people’s table at the reception you shouldn’t be. I recently attended a graduation banquet for my mother’s caregiver’s daughter. When father of the girl graduating became too ill to take her to school we gave her a room in our house so she could go to the high school in my mom’s town, a HUGE step in quality of education from where she had been. She is now the first in her family to go on to college. For our generosity we where highly honored guests. However the family is Tongan and we were seated at, you guessed it, the white people’s table. The funny thing is that a few guests could not make it and so there weren’t even enough people to fill up the white people’s table.

  25. Radio Yerevan jokes. They emerged in the 70s and 80s, and pretended to answer all the questions that the Soviet propaganda machine failed to address.
    Some samples :
    A brand new American car is parked outside of a hotel in Moscow. A Russian approaches the owner, and asks how on Earth he managed to get his hands on a car like that.
    “I just walked into a store, and bought it,” the American replies.
    “That sounds like a joke,” the Russian man commented. “What about all the permits, the certificates, the applications for the car itself, for the car radio, gasoline, a parking lot…”
    “You don’t need anything like that in our country,” said the American.
    “WHAT!?” exclaimed the Russian. “How can you live in such Chaos?”

    • Funny…and reminds me of the very long wait Soviet citizens had for the simplest consumer goods.

      Here, we have to visit the DMV – Division of Motor Vehicles – to get license plates registered w/ a newly purchased car’s VIN number, the Title Deed for the car showing whether or not it’s paid for or if it’s being bought on time.The county where it is garaged must be stated (for people like us, no garage, so its where the vehicle resides) with us. and we have to swear we have car insurance.

      Then annually we have to get car inspections, for which we are given stickers for our windshield.
      Also annually, we mail in or robo call our state registration again so we can get new stickers for the license plate.
      Another annual expense is at the local level, for us the county sticker. That’s about 25.00
      Finally, there is the annual personal property tax, based on the worth of your car or cars. Since we have only one car and it’s 16 years old, we don’t pay much.
      There is also a state car tax, though I think they may have eliminated that one…or maybe they take it out of your state tax refund. I forget now since I no longer do any of it except the robo call for the yearly state stickers.

      Heck, I’m not even a legal person anymore: I let my driver’s license lapse (a whole ‘nother hurdle to jump and $$ to pay). I did this because fibromyalgia and CF made me a danger on the road and trips here aren’t short hops to the store.I had no idea it would cause such a problem. Now, when I go to vote or see a new doctor, they want a photo ID and the only one I have is that outdated license. I keep hoping to feel well enough to have the B drive me to the local Soviet but I never quite have the energy.

      Fortunately, the voting part is okay because all the people there know me by name and just look me up on the register and check me off. I do keep my old license in hand, but they never ask to see it, dg.

      New doc’s offices give up when I tell them I don’t have a photo ID but eventually I suppose I’ll be turned away. And I don’t even look Hispanic or Arab…

      • My wife has dementia and Alzheimer’s. I renewed her DL a few months ago so she could have a picture ID. Bad move! I can’t get her taken off our car insurance policy because she has a DL. Hasn’t driven in three yeas because I deemed her unsafe. So now I have to figure out how to get her an id without a lot of stress for her! Drat.

    • Trabant was an East-German car made of compressed paper+plastic combination with a 2 stroke 26 horsepower engine (in US that is the lawnmower). Still people had to apply for a car to the state and wait years to get it. There are a lot of jokes about Trabants as it become the symbol of Communism…
      Here is one:
      In winter a sharp curve and icy road, at the curve a large tree.
      – A Ford coming to the curve slides out, hits the tree. Joe the american worker crawls out of the car and sits down crying: “Oh my God, 6 months income just gone in a second…”
      – A Volkswagen comes down the road, same story straighten the curve hits the tree. Hans crawling out crying: “Oh mein Gott, a year of income just gone in a second…”
      – A Hungarian with a Trabant comes down the road. Everything happens the same way as for the two before. Hits the tree and he crawls out crying: “Oh my God, the result of my whole life work is just gone in a second…”
      Joe then looks up and says to the Hungarian: “You deserved it! Why did you bought such an expensive car!

  26. Do you know what nationality Adam and Eve were?”
    “They were Russians. And do you know why we can be so sure about that?”
    “First of all, they were naked; second, they only had one apple between them. Third, they believed that they were in Paradise.”

      • I just realized all of you here are not teenagers anymore..
        I admire profoundly your energy,wisdom and willing to care for the World and our future..
        My sincere apology if my “roughens” harm you anyhow.. It want happen anymore!

  27. Dear Radio Yerevan: I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I don’t love the Party any more. I feel nothing at all for Comrade Brezhnev or any of the other leaders of the Party. What should I do?
    – Please send us your name and address.

  28. Question to Radio Armenia: “What is the definition of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR?”
    – Answer: “The Supreme Soviet is a collective organ of Soviet authority, consisting of two types of people: those who are absolutely incapable of anything, and those who are capable of absolutely everything.”

  29. Question to Radio Armenia:Can Communism also be in the USA?
    – Yes. But who would give us our wheat then?

  30. Why does the USSR only have a one-party system?
    – Because we couldn’t nourish two partys.

  31. Dear Radio Yerevan:Why the return of the Soviet Space station from the Moon was marked as a huge success?
    – Because finally we have an evidence that something can leave the Soviet Union and come back.

  32. A bit old and geeky, but I hope works:

    God decides to end the world. He calls in President Trump, Putin and Bill Gates. He tells them the world will end in 3 days, please spread the news. The guys go home and call together their people and give a speech:
    – My fellow Americans – says Trump, I have a good news and a bad news: First the good news, that as we believed God does exists and as a bad news: he will end the world in 3 days…
    – Dear comrades – says Putin, I have two bad news: first despite our beliefs God does exists and in 3 days he will end the world
    – Gates calls together a meeting at Microsoft: Guys I have two good news: the first God does exists, so we can blame him for all the bugs in Windows. The second, he will end the world in 3 days, so we don’t have to fix them!

  33. “Nos. 2 through 4 are from Yorkshire, and are meant to be told in broad dialect.”

    Separated By A Common Language
    A Scottish friend told a story from his time in North Africa during WWII.
    During a break in goings-on, his unit was bivouacked near a group of Australians. One day an Aussie trooper came into camp and asked friend if he had “lices”. Thinking first he’d heard incorrectly, he asked again “what did you say”, again it was “lices”. Finally taking some offense, words were exchanged. Eventually it was amicably established that the trooper wanted boot “laces”.

  34. here is another bad joke that is ‘in store’ for you.
    About 25 years ago Nabisco thought to make its snacks healthier by using rice instead of corn and wheat. The first product of this experimental line was the Cheez-its line of snacks. The Moore Companies, a long-time jobber and distributor of snack items was tasked with finding an introductory venue for the product as well as arranging for the promotional display and leasing the shelf space in the store. Max Foods, a now defunct warehouse type store was chosen as both Costco and Wal-Mart declined to participate. The product consignment was sent to the Upland, CA Max Foods store for storage until the Moore Companies representatives could arrive and set up the display and stock the shelves that had been leased. The afternoon before the product promotion was to have begun the Moore Companies employees showed up to place the stock on the shelves. They asked the store manager for the use of the forklift and the warehouse operator. The store manager told them that the Teamsters had gone out on strike and the store was being kept open by junior management and temporary employees and none of them were authorized to use the store’s forklift. In desperation the senior representative sent the other employees out to every rental yard to find and rent the ladders that would be needed to retrieve the product from the upper shelves where it was stored. The sight of men in business casual dress renting construction ladders caused quite a stir and one of the rental yard managers called the Daily Report, the local newspaper t tell them what was going on. A reporter was sent to Max Foods and was able to sneak into the store and watch while the shelves were being frantically searched for the Cheez-its that were made with rice. Around 10:00pm the Moore Companies employees gave up their search. The senior representative then went to the senior store manager of Max Foods, who had shown up in response to all of the commotion, demanding to know what had become of the product that the Moore Companies had sent to the store. The senior store manager replied, “We received the shipment and we opened one of the boxes to inspect the shipment. We opened one of the bags to sample the product. The Cheez-its that were made with rice tasted awful so we tossed the entire lot in the trash thinking that the product had become contaminated. The reporter, who had been unobtrusively listening to all of this, snuck out of the store and went to the press room of the Daily Report and wrote the story for the next day’s morning edition. The headline for the story read, “The Moore men’s search for the Rice Cheez-its on the day of the ladder stains.”

    • Okay, I give up. Please explain the joke, which consists of a long story to justify the sequence of syllables “The Moore men’s search for the Rice Cheez-its on the day of the ladder stains.” This must be a mispronunciation of some famous saying, but I can’t figure out what the saying is.

      Here’s another lame, contrived joke of the same type:

      • If I understand it correctly, the pun (a very bad one) is on “The Mormon Church of Christ Jesus of the Latter Day Saints.” Or something close to that.

        • You got it boss. I felt it would be in good company with the other jokes that were on crutches. I was a warehouseman for a food broker while waiting for construction work to return. The scenario is a fairly accurate description of what goes on behind the scenes. The really bad pun came first. The shaggy dog story was written to have the pun as the punch line.

      • The one I heard was about Indian mothers who used horse hides as blankets to sit on. Then one day an Indian mother shows up with a Hippopotamus hide she got from trading buffalos. The punch line was, “The squaw on the hippopotamus is equal to the squaws on the other two hides.”

  35. I know about three dozen baseball jokes– they all play for the Phillies (Check the MLB team rankings, you’ll understand).

    Okay, a Soviet-related joke from the late 1950s: Khrushchev is in the middle of his de-Stalinization program and decides to put the old monster down the Russian memory hole by reburying him somewhere outside the USSR. So he starts calling the leaders of various Western democracies seeking permission to bury Stalin’s remains on their turf. He begins with President Eisenhower, who recoils with horror at the thought of having “Uncle Joe” laid to rest at Arlington. Macmillan of the UK is equally opposed to allowing Stalin to be entombed in Westminster Abbey, and de Gaulle starts cursing in French when Khrushchev asks to rebury Stalin next to Napoleon in Les Invalides.

    Khrushchev keeps going down his list and getting one rejection after another until he finally swallows his pride and calls Ben-Gurion of Israel. Ben-Gurion asks about the reason for the call, and Khrushchev explains that he would like to rebury Stalin somewhere outside Russia, and would interment in Israel be a possibility? Ben-Gurion says, “Fine, no problem.” Khrushchev is astounded and delighted until Ben-Gurion reminds him that there is one little catch to burying Stalin in Israel. Khrushchev asks, “What is the catch?” Ben-Gurion replies, “Israel has the highest resurrection rate in the world.”

    • How about the (Wrigley’s of course) gum chewing Cubs who held their winter practice on Catalina Island.

  36. I heard this one on the TV show “The Americans.”

    A women walks into a market in Moscow to buy some meat, but she can’t find any. So she goes up to the man behind the counter and asks about it. “No ma’am, this is a fish market. We have no fish. Go to the meat market across the street. Over there they have no meat.”

    OK, I didn’t tell it very well but when a Soviet bureaucrat told it on the show it was funny.

  37. A farmer named Muldoon lived alone in the Irish countryside except for a pet dog he had for a very long time.

    The dog finally died and Muldoon went to the parish priest, saying “Father, the dog is dead. Could you possibly be saying a Mass for the poor creature?”

    Father Patrick told the farmer “No, we can’t have services for an animal in the church, but I’ll tell you what, there’s a protestant church down the road apiece, and no telling what they believe in, but maybe they’ll do something for the animal.”

    Muldoon said “I’ll go right now. By the way, do you think $5,000 is enough to donate for the service?”

    Father Patrick replied “Why didn’t you tell me the dog was Catholic.”

    • Hilarious.

      Here’s a Soviet joke.
      Question :How do you double the value of a LADA?
      Answer:Fill the tank with petrol.

  38. Have to get this one in, before the fund-raiser ends!

    My Dad told me this one years ago. I think he heard it from an Irish friend, where it was set in Dublin and London. I think Dad re-purposed it for a Newfoundland audience. (Or maybe it was a true, native story?)

    A man from St. John’s, Newfoundland, travels to Toronto, Ontario on business.

    While there he meets a nice young lass in a bar, they hit it off, and they go back to his hotel.

    Evening goes well, and in the morning, after breakfast, as she’s leaving, he gives her $100. “Just for your cab fare, you know,” he says.

    The next night he goes to the same bar, meets the same young lady, and a repeat performance occurs. Next morning he gives her $200, “For your cab fare home … and back to that pub again this evening … if you’re free.”

    This happens once again, and on the third morning, when he tries to give her another $200 the girl, feeling guilty, tells him “I have something to confess to you … I’m from Newfoundland, too.”

    “Yes, I know you are,” says he. “I have a confession for you, too. I know your mother. She gave me $500 to bring up to you.”

    (Not as well told as my Dad could do, but you get the gist.)

  39. A Texan walks into a pub in Ireland and clears his voice to the crowd of drinkers. He says, “I hear you Irish are a bunch of hard drinkers. I’ll give $500 American dollars to anybody in here who can drink 10 pints of Guinness back-to-back.”
    The room is quiet and no one takes up the Texan’s offer. One man even leaves. Thirty minutes later the same gentleman who left shows back up and taps the Texan on the shoulder. “Is your bet still good?”, asks the Irishman.
    The Texan says yes and asks the bartender to line up 10 pints of Guinness. Immediately the Irishman tears into all 10 of the pint glasses drinking them all back-to-back. The other pub patrons cheer as the Texan sits in amazement.
    The Texan gives the Irishman the $500 and says, “If ya don’t mind me askin’, where did you go for that 30 minutes you were gone?”
    The Irishman replies, “Oh…I had to go to the pub down the street to see if I could do it first”

  40. File under, “Irish I was Irish”

    Q: What’s Irish and sits outside all night?

    A: Paddy O’Furniture.
    Q: What do you call siblings born less than ten months apart?

    A: “Irish twins”.
    Q: What’s the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish funeral?

    A: One less drunk.
    Q: What best describes an Irishman ordering two shots of Bushmill’s?

    A: Dublin down!

    (Made that up, just for you, Dymphna—so there!)

    On a supposedly lighter and yet infinitely more poignant note, what follows is an beautifully evocative musical piece that I’ve performed on radio, in public, and before the “royalty” of Silicon Valley’s SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism).Sheebeg Sheemore

    Composed by the blind Irish harpist, Turlough O’Carolan, (1670 – 1738), his travels to Italy (much like with JS Bach) saw him return with ornamentation and embellishment skills that set him apart from many other artists.

    Here’s another pair of tracks from Planxty. They’re enough to make me want to take up the short pipes.

    Tabhair dom do Lámh (Give Me Your Hand)

    Merrily Kissed Quaker

  41. Your last Soviet “train” joke was great! Bolshoi! I’ll repeat it here and then add to it by introducing Yuri Andropov to the train compartment. Perhaps, the joke can continue to expand and like a set of matryoshka dolls come to include Chernenko, Gorby, etc…

    Stalin, Khrushchev, and Brezhnev [and Andropov] are riding together in the compartment of a train. The train is traveling across the empty steppe when it suddenly stops, for no apparent reason, in the middle of nowhere.

    After twenty minutes of tapping his fingers impatiently on the arm of his seat, Stalin gets up and leaves the compartment. When he returns a few minutes later, he says, “Problem is solved: engineer has been shot.”

    He sits down, but still the train does not move. The three of them stare out the window at the motionless steppe for a while longer, and then Khrushchev gets up and leaves the compartment. When he returns, he says, “Problem is solved: engineer has been posthumously rehabilitated.”

    He sits down. The train remains motionless. Finally, after half an hour, Brezhnev gets up, pulls down the shade, and says, “Problem is solved: train is moving.”

    [Andropov, mutters a few words about “heading towards Afghanistan” and, from the shock of his perception of a suddenly moving train, has a massive heart attack and dies.]

  42. I heard this in England via America some decades ago:
    Adam was in the Garden of Eden and God came to him and said: Adam, I want to give you a present. She will be beautiful and kind; she will cook for you and love you and look after you and laugh at all your jokes…you will be so, so happy.
    Adam: How much is it going to cost me?
    God: I am glad you asked me that. I am afraid it is going to cost you an arm and a leg.
    Adam: Well, what do I get for a rib?

  43. With all of this Sun ‘worship’ what about the rock ‘n roll tunes with ‘sun’ in them, such as “Here comes the sun,” “Sunshine of your love,” “Bright sun shiny day” (hated this one).

  44. This one will be a ROFL…….
    Right out of the good books…..
    Are you a Republican, a Democrat, or a Southerner? This little test will help you decide: (I’m kinda a southern-conservative cross-hey have you seen the price of good .45s these days? Pure southerners are so expressive….)

    You’re walking down a deserted street with your wife and two small children.
    Suddenly, a Terrorist with a huge knife comes around the corner, locks eyes with you, screams obscenities, raises the knife, and charges at you…
    You are carrying a Glock 21 cal. 45 ACP, and you are an expert shot. You have mere seconds before he reaches you and your family. What do you do?
    Democrat’s Answer:
    Well, that’s not enough information to answer the question! What is a Glock 21 cal. 45 ACP?
    Does the man look poor or oppressed? Is he really a terrorist? Am I guilty of profiling? Have I ever done anything to him that would inspire him to attack?
    Could I possibly swing the gun like a club and knock the knife out of his hand? What does the law say about this situation?
    Does the pistol have an appropriate safety built into it? Why am I carrying a loaded gun anyway, and what kind of message does this send to society and to my children?
    Is it possible he’d be happy with just killing me? Does he definitely want to kill me, or would he be content just to wound me?
    Should I call 9-1-1? Why is this street so deserted? Can we make this a happier, healthier street that would discourage such behavior.
    I need to debate this with some friends for a few days and try to come to a consensus. This is all so confusing!
    Republican’s Answer:
    Southerner’s Answer:
    (Sounds of reloading)
    Daughter: “Nice grouping, Daddy! Were those the Winchester Silver Tips or Federal Hollow Points?!”
    Son: “Can I shoot the next one?!”
    Wife: “You are NOT taking that to a Taxidermist!

  45. Ceausescu, Brejnev, Nixon…going in Africa in a safari.
    One day, they made a hunting contest. All day they are in the jungle, hunting.
    When the hunting end, they meet and start showing what they got.
    Nixon….”I got 2 lions and 3 hyenas”
    Ceausescu…”I got 1 elephant and 3 monkeys”
    Brejnev…”I got 4 pleesnoys”

    Nixon and Ceausescu …”what ? Pleesnoys ? What is that ?”
    Brejnev…”when you go in the jungle and they see you pointing the gun on them, they jump in the first tree and screeam Please NO…Please NO….”

    • Ceausescu, Brejnev, Nixon…going in Africa in a safari.

      Nicolae Ceaușescu, Lech Wałęsa, and Václav Havel were all sitting around a table drinking beers and wondering why George Bush had such a funny name.

  46. From the comments section at
    “Esther Sarah Evans
    b”H Hi, Jack, here’s a joke I heard recently from an Arab here beAretz where I live. Even with the intimidation from the terrorist groups, these guys have a sense of humour too….sometimes very Jewish. – A guy entere a butcher shop together with a sizeable cat. The butcher shop also sells fish; so he says, “Give me a kilo of your best fish for this cat.” He recieves the fish, which he gives to the cat, who gobbles it up on the spot. Then he says, “Give me a kilo of beef for this cat.” Same thing. He gets the beef, which he gives to the cat who eats with relish. Then he turns to go, but the butcher cries, “Where’s my money ? Who’s paying for all this ?| The man points to the cat and says, ” He’s paying. I was just translating.”
    Boy, would I like to try that some day…..I’ve got a whole slew of them _Jewish and Arab cats – to feed,and times are tough…”

    Maybe he was told it by a Russian immigrant!

  47. I have several cousins that are “Irish Twins.”
    The funny thing is that rather than being parasites on our society, they are rather productive citizens.

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