Wee Stewart got a contract with a client in England, he told me:
“I don’t think this job’s going to last.”
“Well, we don’t really see eye-to-eye; there’s a communication problem.”
“Is it an English-Scottish thing?”
“No, I don’t think so; I don’t know what it is exactly, they don’t even get my sense of humour.” He moaned,
“For instance, we all went out for a drink after work to this pub near the office which had a stripper pole-dancing on a podium – Well, I didn’t expect that, and didn’t know where to look, so I blurted out a wee joke.”
“Oh, right, so what did you say then, do tell.”
“All I said was, ‘Phew, that dancer’s getting me going – I can’t wait to get home and rip the wife’s knickers off… …they’re killing me!’ You know, that old joke, I thought it would do the trick, break the ice and all that, but they just gave me strange looks and started edging away.”
“So they thought you were not joking – and that you were wearing your wife’s knickers?”
He left that job soon after.
I told this story myself today in the office, and could hardly believe it when one of them said she didn’t “get it”.
I recapped, with much emphasis.
“Phew, that stripper’s getting me all HOT and BOTHERED AND NOW I can’t wait to get home and r-r-r-rip my wife’s knickers off… (COMEDY PAUSE) …because they’re killing me – boom boom – Ta-dah!.” Jazz hands. Happy, expectant face. Nothing. Not even tumble-weed.
“I don’t get it – was he wearing the knickers or not?”
“Why is that funny?”
“Is that funny?”
“I don’t get it.”
Irony. Irony. Irony.