Jewish jokes launched my jokes section, but of course there are many other great ethnic joke types.
I remember Steve Allen cracking me up when he introduced some guy as representing an Polish anti-defamation league. The guy illustrated with a few offensive Polish jokes: and the audience roared. It all proved of course to be a false front: the guy told Polish jokes, told them well, and added humor by pretending to be offended!
Here’s one that my son told me: I almost fell off my bicycle: we were pedaling in sand.
Polish Airline Makes Maiden Visit to JFK:
But of course the plane crashed! The crews arrived, foamed everything down, no one killed, everyone on the way to recovery. So they debrief the pilot: one journalist not avoiding sarcasm: “What’s the matter? Wasn’t the runway wide enough for you?”
You see the plane had crashed not at either end of the runway but abruptly t the side: headed right into the fence and the neighboring field!
“Oh, it was wide enough, the Polish neophyte answered, “Miles wide! and miles! But it was so short!”
One’s a start; there’s zillions more to add. Hungarian aristocrat jokes is one category, Swiss jokes … I seldom hear in the USofA.
Scotsman walks into a pharmacy, pharmacies are just beginning to be modern, combining supermarket-like aisles and the chemist’s cage in the back. He’s in full highlands dress, wearing his kilt with its sporran, knee socks, hat with a feather. He approaches the chemist’s cage. The chemist shows that he’s paying attention, what does the highlander want? The scotsman takes one more look around, appears satisfied that they’re alone, and removes a package from his blouse. You can smell it, whatever it is, the the scotsman carefully unwraps it, the odor increasing with each unwrap. Finally the contents lay revealed on the counter. It’s a condom, much used. I would say abused as well as used, it lays in a puddle amid the waxed paper. The pharmacist recoils, the scotsman leans toward his ear: “Could ‘ye perhaps do something about replacing this?”
“Ah, certainly,” replies the pharmacist. “There’s a rack of condoms just behind you.”
The scotsman turns, beholds the rack, sees row after row of condoms: singles, packets of three …”
“How much?” asks the scotsman.
“Six pence each.”
“Do ‘ye hae anything cheaper?”
“By the dozen, by the gross. I can have that one vulcanized for tuppence.”
“Mmm,” muses the scotsman. Slowly he rewraps the condom, folds the wax paper, slips the mess back under his blouse, says, “I’ll think about it,” and exits.
A week later the same chemist sits in the same cage, the pharmacy aisles neat and empty, and here comes once again the scotsman. He peruses the aisles, approaches the cage, verifies that they’re alone, removes the package, and unwraps it. There sliming the counter is the same used, abused, stinking condom, one more used, more stinking, slimier, viler. The scotsman fixes the pharmacist’s gaze. “You and I,” he began, “are about to conduct a wee bit of business.”
“The regiment,” he announces, “has voted for vulcanization.”