Not Getting It

Wee Stewart got a contract with a client in England, he told me:

“I don’t think this job’s going to last.”

“Why’s that?”

“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.

wife's knickers are killing me

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.

because they're killing me


One thought on “Not Getting It

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