Once upon a time, for a reason that are too contrived to be worth recounting, five fierce patriots were sharing a compartment in a railway carriage: an American, a Russian, a Cuban, an Australian, and Englishman. After a few hours of prickly silence, the Russian opened a half-kilo jar of Beluga caviare, ate two generous tablespoons of it, and then three the rest out of the window. The others stared longingly and amazed.
“In Russia, caviare is food of peasants.” said the Russian. “We have so much Beluga that we feed it to the pigs.”
Not to be outdone, the American opened a bottle of fine Bourbon, and the compartment was filled with its aroma. He took a couple of swigs from the bottle, and threw the rest out the window.
“In the USA there’s a fourteen-year-old cask-strength Bourbon on every office desk. I brought this along to gargle with.”
The Cuban reached into his coat, took out a double corona Havana cigar, cut the end, lit it, took three slow puffs, blew a smoke ring, and then pitched the far greater part of his fine cigar out of the window.
“What can I say?” he said. “Havana. Cigars. We have warehouses full of them. We have so many that we don’t know what to do with them all.”
And then the Aussie grabbed the Pom and threw him out the window.
“So, comrade, why do you wish to leave the workers’ paradise?”
“Well, I hear there is going to be a great pogrom. Against the Jews and the dentists.”
“Why the dentists?”
“Yes, everybody says that. That’s why I want to leave.”
After he became the premier of the Soviet Union, Leonid Brezhnev invited his mother to visit him. During the visit, he drove her out of Moscow to his dacha in his imported automobile. He proudly showed her its many rooms, its fine furnishings, its kitchen stocked with fine food and vodka. And all through the visit, she became more and more somber.
Finally, he said, “Mother, aren’t you happy for me?”
And she answered, “Oh, Leonid, it’s all very nice. But what will happen to you if the Communists take over?”
This one is nearly post-communist, but I still like it.
“Hey, Dimitri, go and ask that tourist what is he doing here in the middle of Russia”
“Tourist? What tourist…? How can you tell we have a tourist here. Andrei?”
“Yes, that guy smiling in the middle of the square, Dimitri, what can he be smiling for?”
“You know that insurance companies now offer camping insurance? Be careful though, they’re not extensive. For example, they told me if somebody steals my tent I won’t be covered.”
Oh my gods, I encountered the best joke today. It’s a Soviet joke, rapidly becoming my favourite genre:
What weighs 500 kilos, consumes 20 liters of petrol an hour, smokes constantly, and cuts apples into three pieces?
Answer: A Soviet machine designed to cut apples into four pieces.
I’ve been reading Edgar Z. Friedenberg’s Deference to Authority, which I picked up after I saw a review of it, and I discovered what I can only call a Soviet joke about Canada:
What Canadians are proud of having: British government, American know-how, and French culture. What Canadians have: French government, British know-how, and American culture.
