A Columnist Walks Into a Bar, and There's No One There
I sat on my living room couch today and told myself jokes. I'm semiretired, and I have time to tell myself jokes. Eventually, my wife came home, and I had to stop telling jokes and talk to her. That is love as it is lived. If she hadn't come home, I might still be there, sweating in the June heat, telling myself jokes.
What this little experiment proves is that I know a lot of jokes.
Most of the jokes aren't nice, either. They're racist, homophobic, sexist and xenophobic. The rest are just plain filthy. I do know a few "clean" jokes. I learned them in the third grade.
I've been a bartender, and I've been a good bar customer. I've done manual labor, and I've been a reporter on a daily newspaper. People, mostly other men, told me jokes.
Cops have told me jokes at the scene of a stabbing, though not if it was fatal. I've been told jokes in bars, in offices, in break rooms, on loading docks and in the dead minutes before a shift ended.
"Guy walks into a bar..."
"Guy gets home from work..."
"Guy tells goes to confession..."
"Guy's wife meets him at the door..."
No one has told me a joke in 10 years, and the last guy who did was over 70, and he told me the joke between bouts at the fights.