WHAT’S SO FUNNY

by

Peter Jacob Streitz

This bar is a fucking joke. I’ve seen every kind of animal walk in here. Only yesterday the goddamned chicken returned to ask why he crossed the road, again. Sick of his shit the Rabbi and I choked him out, de-feathered the scrawny bastard, and ate his wings raw. The dumb-ass barkeep asked if we wanted some dynamite hot sauce—yeah right, like the bloody mess really needed a condiment as he staggered out the door and across the street . . . only to get flattened by the ambulance he was always chasing.

As if that crap wasn’t funny enough, this militaristic pig sitting next to me never stops talking to the freakin’ penguin about politics.

“O’bambi repeatedly called them corpsemen.”

“Called who corpsemen?”

“Corpsmen. . . in a speech before the armed forces.”

“I don’t dig,” the penguin petulantly puffed. “Is this a joke?”

“Only if he’s Commander-in-Chief.”

What’s funny is this pigpen of a saloon doubling as some sort of museum. It’s got all sorts of hunting paraphernalia dangling floor to ceiling; like Hemingway’s dip-shitty rec-room or something. Rifles, pistols, knifes of all sizes and shapes run rancid around the interior, not to mention the dopey deadheads mounted here to there with long horns all up-lifted and stuff . . . like skeletal peckers in search of a hole to poke. Once while wasted beyond redemption, I proposed a sexual supposition to one off those gay hairy bear-type gorillas that—besides the meat to eat—man only hunts for the horns, the rack, the bone. But as for the macho-man armaments crammed down our gullets at this godforsaken hellhole, I never gave the weaponry a second thought until the exceedingly debauched pig of a racist ripped a whaler’s harpoon out of its protective sheath and torpedoed the penguin, dead center.

“Why?” croaked the flightless birdie, as the pig indifferently downed a shooter, followed by a pint of brew. “Why, please . . .”

“Your uniform. . . it’s a tux.”

“Sooooo,” oozed the penguin.

“You’re now one of the President’s men.”

“. . . ooooo. . .”

“A corpseman.”

But that’s just politics. You ain’t seen nothing until the talk turns to religion. That’s when the Pastor, Priest and Mullah walked in. Christ, they barely finished cleaning up the gore when these righteous monkeys started ruining Happy Hour with what they caterwaul as truth. Talk about funny. It’ll split a gut faster than the pig spilled the penguin’s beans.

“You been drinking all day?” the pastor asked the priest. “I mean, what else ya gotta do when the tiniest holes are outta order?”

“You think that’s funny?” the priest huffed, shaking his head at the Mullah, who was now stroking the long, white, sheep’s pelt that blanketed his pie hole.

“Okay, okay, sorry,” the pastor apologized. “Then let me ask, how may priests does it take to screw a light bulb into a socket?”

“Tell me, how many priests does it take to screw a light bulb into a socket?”

“If there’s an altar boy . . . as many as you like.”

Dead silence. Jesus, even pissed past recognition I prayed for a heckler. . . anyone to explain the punchline. But neither the priest nor the pastor seemed particularly upset with the dud, the bomb, laying an egg. They simply returned to their suicidal rounds of straight shots. The Mullah on the other hand reached behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of vodka from the well—funny as hell when he spread his hair mat, finding his gob—and downed half the bottle. Holy shit! A laugh riot crawled over us dipsomaniacs like insects raging with the DTs. I mean, Jesus Christ, we’d never thought of an Islamic barfly pounding booze, a virgin or two maybe, but never eighty-proof.

So for a guy with the tolerance of a tick, the hooch didn’t take long to set the zealot ablaze.

“I’m bombed!” he shouted, seemingly more confused than surprised by his buzz. “Allah, Allah. . .” he sputtered, “. . .no man should be bombed as me.” As if to give himself some air, a breath, he unbuttoned the front of his muslin robe, revealing a thickly padded vest beneath. From that he pulled a highly polished machete. Quick as a butcher beheading fowl, he hari-karied himself. . . pig-sticking his ass, good and plenty . . .

Gazing down from my bar stool I thought, no matter how many animals walk into a bar—the punchline doesn’t always explode with laughter.