perfunctesoterika:

it turns out ethnic jokes NEVER GROW OLD maybe this one will be more accessible because we know ALL ABOUT Muslims huh?

So Ibn Khaldun was visiting Damascus with his friend Faraj ibn Barquq and they decided to stop in at one of the local restaurants. The owner was an old friend, and Ibn Khaldun greeted him enthusiastically. “You know,” he said, “I love this place! My family has been coming here for three generations, and the food just keeps getting better.”
As soon as he’d said this the owner broke down in tears and collapsed on the floor, sobbing. Ibn Khaldun could make nothing of this, and inquired what was bothering him. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Oh, you’re a great man, Ibn Khaldun, it just breaks my heart to know that you’re the last of your line who will ever dine at this establishment,” the owner replied.
Ibn Khaldun could make nothing of this, either. “What do you mean?”
Before the owner could answer, though, the door of the restaurant slammed open and The Great Turk, Timur stepped through with half a regiment of soldiers who kept pouring in until every seat at every table was full.
“I thought you knew,” the owner said. “I’ve never had a member of any family stay on after the third generation!”

AHAHAHA get it? Oh man maybe you had to be there.

perfunctesoterika:

I finally thought of an ethnic joke:
Three Russians walk into a bar. It’s hard to specifically identify Russians, though, and most of us aren’t familiar with common Russian mannerisms, so it’s no one’s sure they’re Russian. The bar is in Russia, though, so it’s a pretty safe bet that the three people who just walked into it are Russian. Or maybe they’re tourists, but probably not since they don‘t have the shifty, permanently discomforted look of people who live in constant fear that they’ll have to try to carry on a conversation in a language they hardly know. There’s probably twenty to one odds that all three are Russian, unless they’re second or third generation immigrants, although that raises unanswerable questions about whether Russians could remotely be considered a single genetic clade, which is almost definitely not the case. Probably there are lineages in southeast Asia that are more closely descended from Russia than some of the lineages geographically located in Russia now. So probably it’s best to ignore their genealogy for the most part and consider whether they’re culturally acclimated to Russia.
Anyway. These three people walk into a bar. One of them asks for a glass of water. One of them asks for a glass of milk. And the third one asks for the same. All in fluent vernacular. So I’d say they’re definitely Russian.

And now I know two jokes.

Weekly Robbie Newsletter 412

perfunctesoterika:

My housemate was sitting in the Interzone (coffee shop) a few months ago when a boy in his late teens or early twenties came in and stood in line.  After a minute he coughed awkwardly, as men do, excused himself to the girl in front of him, and told her that she was wearing a very pretty dress, at which point she did what any self-respecting girl would do: she turned about, slapped him in the face, and stalked out.  Most of the customers, who had not heard what he said, started to mutter about what awful thing he must have done, and he skulked off with a healthy glow of shame moments later.  I wasn’t surprised when Gillian told me about that - slapping men is a woman’s prerogative, I suppose - but it did strike me that there are relatively few types of assault in which the victim is assumed to be the aggressor and the assailant is assumed to have been threatened.

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