March 12, 2009
How to Construct the Perfect Joke
So, in one of my classes, Essner and I were tasked with re-writing a joke to make it better. This is what we were given.
The bartender who fools the snob who ordered a shot of 12-yr-old scotch into drinking something nasty, and when the snob spits it out and says “That tastes like urine,” the bartender says, “That’s the easy part. Now, tell me how old I am”?
We sat there and brainstormed, and, eventually, Essner wrote down the fruits of our brainstorming session. And now, I type it up and share it with you. Warning: This joke could have you laughing uncontrollably.
And now, the joke.
A man walks into a bar. He doesn’t like the taste of urine. He says to the bartender, who is a homosexual, “Barkeep, I would like your finest glass of 12-year-old space scotch.” They are in a space bar.
The bartender pours him a shot of scotch, knowing full well that it is not 12-year-old space scotch, but that it is in fact 12-year-old double space scotch.
The man drinks the proffered beverage, then spits it out in the bartender’s face. “You deceitful old queen! How dare you sully my pallet with this swill! I demand that you give me the 12-year-old space scotch that I have ordered.”
The bartender, who was quite offended by the “deceitful old queen” remark, despite the fact that it was an accurate description of him, (sometimes the most hurtful remarks are the ones that are the most accurate) says to the man, “I apologize, sir. Let me see if we have any of the 12-year-old space scotch in the back.” at which point the bartender takes an empty glass from behind the bar and walks into the men’s room.
After a few minutes, during which the contentious young man plays a game of “space photo hunt,” the bartender returns from the men’s room carrying a glass filled with what was unmistakeably his own urine. “Sorry it took so long. There was a line in the can… I mean the storage room. Here it is, a glass of 12-year-old space scotch.”
“Thank you, sir! At last I can quench my thirst for this delicious beverage,” says the young man who is under the impression that he is not about to drink a stranger’s urine. He drains the glass in one gulp, at which point he spits and coughs ferociously.
“That, sir, is not 12-year-old space scotch. That is, in fact, your urine.”
“Yes, it is. Now tell me how old I am.”
“You’re 47, and you have testicular cancer. I’m sorry.”
“Oh god, how long do I have?” asks the bartender.
“Three months, at most.”
“Oh my god.”
“I’m sorry.”