Joke Contrapuntal

A fine, fine example of Russian humor.
  January 30, 2006

I often try to tell Lanie Russian jokes but they just don't translate well.  I think it's partly beacause of the language and partly because of the cultural differences.  Lanie suffers my humor like a good sport, though.

I remembered about this today when I had come across the following joke at work and had to bite into my hand because I was laughing so hard.  As long as my compatriots can joke like this, we will be fine.  (Translation mine).

Russia sometime in the ’50s; a bitterly cold winter.  Across a snow-covered yard, a little boy is running for his life after having smashed a window with a snowball.  He is being chased by a janitor in a fur hat and a heavy overcoat, who is brandishing a broom.

The boy thinks as he runs: “No, this won't do at all.  After all, I am from a good family; I want to learn and develop, to make something of myself.  I want to be just like my favorite author, Ernest Hemingway; to be brave and strong, to go fishing off the coast of Cuba.  I don't want to flee from janitors in this crummy town anymore.”

…Cuba, summer.  Ernest Hemingway—brave and strong sure enough—is lying on the sweltering beach surrounded by sultry Cuban women and drinking rum straight out of the bottle.  He is thinking: “No, this won't do at all.  Heroic life, my ass.  People don't care about that.  It's too hot here; my brains are melting; and the women are too fat.  I wish I were in the cool streets of Paris with my friend André Maurois.  We could drink some fine French wine, light the fire in the fireplace and hold deep philosophical conversations late into the night.”

…Paris.  The streets are cool; it's been raining for a week now.  André Maurois is sitting in his garret and polishing off a third bottle of cognac.  Two beautiful French women lie asleep in his bed.  Maurois is quietly cursing his fate and musing: “No, this won't do at all.  This sort of life is too decadent.  It's nothing but a mirage.  I wish I were in cold, cold Moscow right now.  I would find my dear friend, the great writer Andrei Platonov.  We could each have a shot of Russian vodka, which would take us closer to eternity…  Now that is life.”

…Moscow.  Winter.  Wearing a fur hat and a heavy overcoat and brandishing a broom, Andrei Platonov is chasing a small boy and thinking: “I'll kill you if I catch you, you little shit!”

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