Where is the line?
Chatting to a friend today:
Me: When does a sick joke go too far?
Him: Well, I’m Jewish and I’m not keen on holocaust jokes.
Me: My wife is half Jewish and she doesn’t mind me doing the ‘farting, holding her head under the bed covers and saying “gassing the jews” gag.’
Him: My family died. It depends on who’s saying them.
Me: My son is quarter-Jewish, I reckon that just means 25% less presents at Christmas.
Him: Actually, I’ve got a sick joke. I’ve been doing it for 15 years. It gets worse with each telling.
Me: Is this the aristocrats joke?
Him: Nah. It’s my mate right. Friends for ever. But his mum is fat. Really fat.
Me: Fat is funny.
Him: The joke is basically his dad saying, (does gruff voice) “Go up stairs and fuck yer mum.”
Me: Ha.
Him: So the Dad died right, and we’re at the funeral and the joke became, “I am a ghost. Dig up my grave. Get one of my bones and go upstairs and fuck your mum.”
Me: Each time more detail.
Him: Yeah. And we were caught at the funeral. Bloke in front of us heard us and turned round with a “did I really here that?” look. And my mate, to his eternal credit waits for him to turn around and says, “Yes. You really heard that.”
Me: So no limits then?
Him: Well, you find your own line.
Me: Right. I’ll try a joke on you. What looks like an elephant and fucks spades?
Him: Dunno.
Me: Dawn French. Is that racist?
Him: Well I’m laughing.
Me: There’s the theory that being equally offensive to everyone makes everything ok. But feels a bit of a cop-out to me.
Him: Like I said, you find your own line.