Great Failed Bee Jokes of Western Literature, Vol. I
About the lowest-brow thing I can share from a very cultural weekend Jack and I just spent in New York City is some guy's botched attempt at a tired joke, overheard in a nigh-empty bar in the East Village:
"What kind of boobs make milk? No, wait..."
I can't really explain why I found that very funny. Part of it is that one of my ex-coworkers had an amusing story about a colleague delivering an oddly dramatic, wholly inappropriate (but correctly rendered) telling of the joke at a half-day seminar on the topic of the company's sexual harassment policy.
Barely related is a part of a story I heard this evening on WETA's radio feed of the News Hour, describing massive, unexplained bee die-offs out West. Ordinarily I wouldn't have left the news on for more than a few seconds because there's almost nothing I could hear about the outside world that would make me happier than 53 Miles West of Venus does. But I guess anybody can still get my attention just by talking about social insects.
"What kind of boobs make milk? No, wait..."
I can't really explain why I found that very funny. Part of it is that one of my ex-coworkers had an amusing story about a colleague delivering an oddly dramatic, wholly inappropriate (but correctly rendered) telling of the joke at a half-day seminar on the topic of the company's sexual harassment policy.
Barely related is a part of a story I heard this evening on WETA's radio feed of the News Hour, describing massive, unexplained bee die-offs out West. Ordinarily I wouldn't have left the news on for more than a few seconds because there's almost nothing I could hear about the outside world that would make me happier than 53 Miles West of Venus does. But I guess anybody can still get my attention just by talking about social insects.
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