It needs a better punchline. How about “Watson, you cretin. Some bastard has pinched our tent!”? Any better?
I really, really wish I hadn’t read that at work. My cheeks are starting to hurt from holding the laughter in.
Three strangers strike up a conversation in the airport passenger lounge in Bozeman, Montana, awaiting their flights. One is an American Indian passing through from Lame Deer. Another is a Cowboy on his way to Billings for a livestock show and the third passenger is a fundamentalist Arab student, newly arrived at Montana State University from the Middle East.
Their discussion drifts to their diverse cultures. Soon, the two Westerners learn that the Arab is a devout, radical Muslim and the conversation falls into an uneasy lull. The cowboy leans back in his chair, crosses his boots on a magazine table and tips his big sweat-stained hat forward over his face. The wind out side is blowing tumbleweeds around, and the old windsock is flapping; but still no plane comes.
Finally, the American Indian clears his throat and softly he speaks, “At one time here, my people were many, but sadly, now we are few.”
The Muslim student raises an eyebrow and leans forward, “Once my people were few,” he sneers, “and now we are many. Why do you suppose that is?”
The Montana cowboy shifts his toothpick to one side of his mouth and from the darkness beneath his Stetson says in a drawl, “That’s ‘cause we ain’t played Cowboys and Muslims yet, but I do believe it’s a-comin’.”
The Cowboy is then eaten by a donkey.
Three strangers strike up a conversation in the airport passenger lounge in Bozeman, Montana, awaiting their flights. One is an American Indian passing through from Lame Deer. Another is a Cowboy on his way to Billings for a livestock show and the third passenger is a fundamentalist Arab student, newly arrived at Montana State University from the Middle East.
Their discussion drifts to their diverse cultures. Soon, the two Westerners learn that the Arab is a devout, radical Muslim and the conversation falls into an uneasy lull. The cowboy leans back in his chair, crosses his boots on a magazine table and tips his big sweat-stained hat forward over his face. The wind out side is blowing tumbleweeds around, and the old windsock is flapping; but still no plane comes.
Finally, the American Indian clears his throat and softly he speaks, “At one time here, my people were many, but sadly, now we are few.”
The Muslim student raises an eyebrow and leans forward, “Once my people were few,” he sneers, “and now we are many. Why do you suppose that is?”
The Montana cowboy shifts his toothpick to one side of his mouth and exchanges his Stetson for a top hat. He says in a drawl, “That’s ‘cause we ain’t played Cowboys and Grasshoppers yet, but I do believe it’s a-comin’.”
I don’t guess that’s really any better, but I had to try. :rolleyes:
“Three strangers are waiting in the departure lounge. They strike up a casual cordial conversation, and then they board the plane.”
Improves the joke, but it isn’t any funnier.
Here’s how I’d fix it:
A Native American, a Cowboy, and a fundamentalist Arab student are sitting around a table discussing diverse cultures. Soon, the two Westerners learn that the Arab is a devout, radical Muslim and the conversation falls into an uneasy lull. The cowboy leans back in his chair, crosses his boots on the table and tips his big sweat-stained hat forward over his face. Outside, the wind is blowing tumbleweeds around, and seventeen Mexicans climb out of a ’74 El Camino.
Finally, after directing the elderly Jewish couple to the free buffet, the Native American clears his throat and softly he speaks, “Buffalo say, at one time here, my people were many. But sadly, now we are few.” A japanese tourist snaps his picture, bows, and walks off.
The Muslim student raises an eyebrow and, after glancing at the black man sitting at the next table eating fried chicken and watermelon, leans forward. “Once my people were few,” he sneers, “and now we are many. Why do you suppose that is?”.
The cowboy shifts his toothpick to one side of his mouth as a drunken Irishman stumbles past. From the darkness beneath his Stetson, he drawls, “That’s ‘cause we ain’t played Cowboys and Ay-rabs yet, but I do believe it’s a-comin’.”
The Native American looks forlornly at the cowboy’s boots. After a pause, he replies “will you get those shitkickers off my blackjack table, white-eyes?”
Monkey With a Gun, this version actually made me laugh. I like the strenuously exaggerated stereotypes. I’ll wait till I’m sober to decide, but I might actually reply to him with this version.
How about a blonde? Can we get a blonde in here anywhere?
And then Jesus shows up and instead of striking the cowboy dead for his violent racism, Jesus says, “I disown the one who’s telling this violently racist joke.”
Not funny, but how I’d adjust the joke before sending it back to its originator.
A trinity of interlopers strike up a repartee in the aeroplane excursionist mezzanine in Bozeman, Montana, preoccupied with their upcoming volitation. One is a Chippewa-Cree in a transmigratory state originating in Lame Deer. Another is a Fronteersman on his way to Billings for a domestic herd exhibition. The third passenger is a intransigent Muslim academician, newly arrived at Montana State University from the Fertile Crescent.
Their loquacious altercation gravitated toward their diverse cultures. Posthaste, the two African decendents learn that the third similarly ancestored person is a devout, gnarly Muslim and the conversation falls into an apprehensive quiescence. The country male angles his chair as if upon a fulcrum relative to the hind legs, crosses his cossack on a periodical rester and tips his needlessly enlarged diaphoresis-sullied hat forward over a section of his frontal epidermis. The extramural wind is blowing tumbleweeds around, and the ancient windsock is flapping; but still no wind wagon arrives.
Determinately, the Chippewa-Cree meliorates his throat and in a low decibel he articulates, “At one time, my body politic was bounteous, but distressingly, now we are exiguous.”
The pupil raises an shifts his countenance and angles his body antecedently, “Once my plebeians were paltry,” he brickbats, “and at this juncture we are multitudinous. Why do you conjecture that to be?”
The alfresco herder shifts his wooden floss to the dexter flank of his mastication aperture and from the darkness subordinateto his Stetson conjecture in a protracted manner, “The rationale is thus: Our gamboling has not yet included within its repartee BovineMales and Muhammed’s decendents, but I do presuppose it impending ingress.”
Despite the fact that I am a Gay, screaming liberal Democrat, my right-wing, Republican brother sends me “jokes” like this all the time.
I used to ignore them, but now I am one of those new, pissed off Democrats. I always respond.
"…The Montana cowboy shifts his toothpick to one side of his mouth and from the darkness beneath his Stetson says in a drawl, “That’s ‘cause we ain’t played Cowboys and Muslims yet, but I do believe it’s a-comin’.”
And the Muslim says, “Damn, for a minute I thought that was a gun in your pocket. But ya know, you’re kinda cute too.”
Dammit DMark. I’m sitting here eating Ben & Jerry’s pistachio pistachio ice cream, and I laughed so hard it hit the computer screen. After I finished laughing, I looked at that gob of ice cream on the screen, which looked just like…Well, now I’m still laughing.
To which the cross Cossack replies, “In Bozeman, cowboy and Indian show watches you!”
I would reply to the joke with this comment: “That’s a real Wounded Knee-slapper.” Then I’d include links to sites which describe the massacres of innocent indigenous American women and children by “Christians.” Then I’d tell him to take the most exquisitely ornamented crucifix he can find and shove it up his hypocritical ass.
Oo! I know! That would be the Rhinestone Jesus with the Ruby Loincloth that Eve saw, right?
Here ya go!
A brunette, a blonde, and a redhead are sitting around a table discussing diverse cultures. Soon, the fair and dark ones learn that the carrottop is a devout, radical Muslim and the conversation falls into an uneasy lull. The blonde leans back in her chair, crosses her stack-heeled boots on the table and tips her big sweat-stained chapeau forward over her face. Outside, the wind is blowing hairnets around, and seventeen ash-blondes climb out of a ’74 El Camino.
Finally, after directing the elderly bald couple to the free buffet, the brunette clears her throat and softly she speaks, “Hairdresser say, at one time here, my people were many. But sadly, now we are few.” A goateed tourist snaps her picture, bows, and walks off.
The redhead raises an eyebrow and, after glancing at the black-haired man sitting at the next table eating fried chicken and watermelon, leans forward. “Once my people were few,” she sneers, “and now we are many. Why do you suppose that is?”.
The blonde shifts her wad of gum from one side of her mouth to the other as a drunken cornrowed guy stumbles past. From the darkness beneath her bonnet, she drawls, “That’s ‘cause we ain’t played bleach and perm yet, but I do believe it’s a-comin’.”
The brunette looks forlornly at the blonde’s roots. After a pause, she replies “will you get those curling irons off my pedicure table, white-dyes?”
Spectacularly bad.
:: blush ::
If I could have edited it, I’d’ve changed “goateed” to “toupeed” and “pedicure” to “manicure”…
But thanks. I do my humble best. 
Hah! That was a lovely groaner, Eddyetc..
I’d save the joke by eliminating the cowboy character altogether, and change the punchline to the Indian saying, “That’s because they haven’t started playing Cowboys and Muslims yet.” Still not terribly funny, but much less appalling.