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?”

“Aye.”

“Hahaha.”

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

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