are sitting in a cafe chatting over a plate of tabouli and a pint of goat’s milk. The older of the mothers pulls a bag out of her purse and starts flipping through photos. And they start reminiscing.
“This is my oldest son Mohammed. He would be 24 years old now.” “Yes, I remember him as a baby” says the other mother cheerfully. “He’s a martyr now though” mum confides. “Oh, so sad, dear” says the other.
And this is my second son Kalid. He would be 21.” “Oh, I remember him,” says the other happily, “he had such curly hair when he was born”. “He’s a martyr too” says mum quietly. “Oh, gracious me …” says the other.
“And this is my third son. My baby. My beautiful Ahmed. He would be 18”, she whispers. “Yes” says the friend enthusiastically, “I remember when he first started school”. He’s a martyr also,” says mum, with tears in her eyes.
After a pause and a deep sigh, the second Muslim mother looks wistfully at the photographs and says ……
They blow up so fast, don’t they?”
A city slicker shoots a duck out in the country. As he’s retrieving it, a farmer walks up and stops him, claiming that since the duck is on his farm, it technically belongs to him. After minutes of arguing, the farmer proposes they settle the matter “country style.”
“What’s country style?” asks the city boy.
“Out here in the country,” the farmer says, “when two fellers have a dispute, one feller kicks the other one in the balls as hard as he can. Then that feller, why, he kicks the first one as hard as he can. And so forth. Last man standin’ wins the dispute.”
Warily the city boy agrees and prepares himself. The farmer hauls off and kicks him in the groin with all his might. The city boy falls to the ground in the most intense pain he’s ever felt, crying like a baby and coughing up blood. Finally he staggers to his feet and says, “All right, n-now it’s–it’s m-my turn.”
The farmer grins. “Aw, hell, you win. Keep the duck.”
Little Johnny came home from school one day slightly confused. His mother was Jewish and his father was black
So Johnny asks, Mommy, am I more Jewish or more black?”
“What does it really matter? If you want to know for sure you’ll jus have to ask your father,” his mother tells him.
So, when his father arrived home from work, Little Johnny asks the same question, “Daddy, am I more Jewish or more black?”
“What the hell kind of a question is that? Why do you want to know if you’re more Jewish or more black?” asks his dad.
“Well, it’s like this dad… Tommy down the street wants to sell his bicycle for $50, and I don’t know whether to Jew him down to $25, or wait until it’s dark and steal the fucking thing.”
At the end of a tiny deserted bar sits a huge Indian. He’s having a few beers when a short, well dressed, and obviously gay man walks in and sits down beside him.
After three or four beers the gay fellow finally plucks up the courage to say something to the big Indian. Leaning over towards him,he whispers, “Do you want a blow job?”
At this the massive Indian leaps up with fire in his eyes and smacks the man in the face knocking him swiftly off his stool. He proceeds to beat him all the way out of the bar before leaving him bruised and battered in the parking lot and returning to his seat.
Amazed, the bartender quickly brings over another beer to the big Indian. “I’ve never seen you react like that,” he says. “Just what did he say to you?”
” I don’t know,” the big Indian replied. “Something about a job.”
Two families moved from Afghanistan to America. When they arrived, the two fathers made a bet — in a year’s time whichever family had become more Americanized would win.
A year later they met. The first man said, “My son is playing baseball, I had McDonald’s for breakfast and I’m on my way to pick up a case of Bud, how about you?”
The second man replied, “Fuck you, towel head.”