I was beat up by a woman!!!

Not funny.  But I see how some might see the humor.

A good laugh, Don.

     

I don't mind sexist jokes that are funny. If all jokes had to be politically correct, the world of humour would lose out.

True, but i used to tell "Cajun" jokes, until a close friend told me that her background was Acadian, and that hearing those jokes were hurtful.

I also remember laughing at the jokes of a stand-up called Brother Dave Gardner, whose stories often put African Americans in demeaning roles. When I think back, I am appalled at my laughter.

Just me, and re different circumstances

You and I are on the same page, Ann.  I think it takes a more clever comic to tell funny stories that don't demean anyone but perhaps themselves.

I once told a dumb farmer joke.  It was about the farmer that always grew corn but his fields were over-used and he had to try something else.  The farm bureau suggested he grow chickens instead and sent him out trays of baby chicks.

The next time the farm agent came to call, he asked about the chickensl

"Well," said the corn farmer, " I put 'em in rows just like the corn, but they ain't come through the earth yet."

That joke was meant to illustrate the need for careful instructions and not to make assumptions.  The farmers in Idaho did not think it was funny at all.  It was also not a joke for mixed company as it was a bit macabre. 

City slickers thought it was hilarious.

A man touching a woman's breast and being knocked out cold is funny. She isn't a victim. She isn't belittled by the experience. She punches the guy so hard he won't recover for two weeks! This is a do-not-mess-with-me joke. I told it to my husband and we fell about laughing.

I'm not sure a large breasted woman would think it funny just like my farmers didn't think the buried chickens were funny.

Acadians were former French Canadians who settled in southwest Louisiana after being expelled by the British. They spoke both "Cajun" French and a dialect of English that had a unique accent.

A Houston businessman went on a duck-hunting vacation in southwest Louisiana. He had been there several days when his secretary needed to get in touch with him, so called the hunting club. A man answered the phone saying, "Broussard Hunt Camp. This is Broussard who is spoke." "Hello, the secretary said, "I am trying to reach Mr John Jones. Is he available? " "He is here, yeah. He is available? Mon, no." "Excuse me?" asked the secretary. "What it is, Ma'am, he is out in the blind for to shoot the duck. I would take four or three hours for to get him back at the camp." "Would you get a message to him then? and tell him to call Mr Jack Smith at the Pipeline Oil Company, at Capitol 2-4681, in Houston Texas? (Broussard, he don't say nothing.) "Hello? Are you still there?" "Mon, yeah," Broussard replied, "I'm just trying to figure out how to write that capital 2."

Broussard's little boy was sick, so he took the boy to the Dr, who said, "I'm giving you these suppositories. Every morning, before he eats breakfast, I want you to put one in his rectum."

Several days later, the doctor got a call from Broussard, saying the boy was not getting any better."You gave him the suppositories, as I told you?""well, mon, no." Broussard replied. "We didn't got none of that rectum, so we put it in his oatmeal, but, mon, for all the good it be done, we might as well have put it up his Bu**"

I laugh at everything. 
I find that a person's sense of humor does not have to be mine.  Let the world laugh. Who am I do designate what is funny to whom.

Love,
Betty

You know, after my reprimand, I didn't really stop telling the stories.  I just stopped using Cajun surnames and accents, ant told the stories as being just about people in general.  People laughed just as hard, and no group was offended.


The Intracoastal canal is a man-made deep water waterway that runs along the Gulf coastline, just north of the beach highway.  Since it was dug to give better access to  larger boats travelling between the Sabine River and Galveston Bay, fixed-span bridges were illegal.  The town of High Island was also the site of one of the few drawbridges along the waterway.

A politician (OK, but they aren't really people these days, right) had several of his supporters going through the neighborhoods in High Island, canvassing for votes.  One of those supporters stopped as a house, rang the doorbell, and started his spiel to the man who opened the door.  He was quickly stopped by the homeowner who asked, "Is that the same jerk who used to run the draw-bridge?  "Well, yes,..."  Then you can stop right there 'cause he ain't getting my vote for nothing, no-how. "Well, would you explain why?  "Certainly will.  Some years back, I had me a prize bull.  I paid three-thousand, five hundred, thirty-three dollars and twenty-seven cents for that bull.  And, well, the bull got sick, so I called out the vet, who told me the bull was constipated, and what I needed to do was fill a bucket with soapy suds, get a funnel, and use the funnel to pour those suds in his behind.  Well, I got the bucket and the suds, but I didn't have no funnel, so I got my old Army bugle instead.  Only I didn't tie the bull down as well as I ought to have, and he kicked himself loose about half-way through, and started running down the road, straight toward the drawbridge.  And it was about that time that them suds started working and the bugle started blowing, and that darned idiot heard the bugle and started to raise the drawbridge and my three-thousand, five hundred, thirty-three dollars and twenty-seven cents prize bull ran right off the edge of the open bridge and fell into the canal and drowned.  So, no, I ain't voting for that man because anybody who can't tell the difference between a boat whistle and a bull with a bugle up his bu** an't got the sense to be no city councilman."

I generally learned my jokes from my older brother and his friends, hence the tendency toward backsides and such.  I would hear them and save them to tell  at all-girl slumber parties.  One night our hostess's dad overheard me, and laughed so hard he was crying.  And forever after that, whenever we were both in a mixed group of adults, he would turn to me and say, "Ann, tell Mr and Mrs So-ans-so the story about the bull and the drawbridge."  So after a while, I just stopped telling them altogether, at least until I was a little older and knew my audience well enough to know they wouldn't be offended. (And it wouldn't do them any good to tell my parents.)