Richard Pryor had skit one time about one of his characters that could not tell a joke. It went something like, “there were three dudes. No two dudes. No three, no two dudes and nun. That’s it, two dudes and a nun. ” Then Pryor would say,” Leroy could not tell a joke”
Well I totally messed up Death by acheechee. It should be death or acheechee and there is no vat of boiling fat, no forks- I put about six jokes together and what resulted was…well I don’t know. My brother told me the one about the forks and the skin for the canoe years ago and somehow I put all of the jokes in pot. It dawned on me when I was telling a friend the joke last night and he just sat there. “John, that’s not funny.” D.D. would not have chosen a joke with any chance of a poor response or laughter. So I google acheechee and find the joke. The real joke and it is the one that D.D. told in New Zealand- I think. I didn’t even spell it right. I said gettie up to my mouth before my brain was hitched up. “From Festus on Gunsmoke.”
Thursday, March 23, 2006Three Englishmen were venturing deep into the heart of darkness a.k.a. some remote jungle in the Amazon – in search of rare butterflies to catalogue.
This was the sixth month of their gruelling expedition, having survived anacondas in their only source for water, insects in their skin, screeching howler monkeys interrupting what they could remember from Schubert’s fifth symphony, and that rather embarassing temptation to believe in a God who would create howler monkeys.
But I digress.
Anyway, one day as they were nervously staying adrift on a flimsy home-made raft on an unfamiliar river, they heard drumming, which is never a good thing for these stereotypical settings – and sure enough, there gaining them from behind rather consistently ( and without much of a rush ) were three large boats filled with festive savages in their floral gear, all at once endearing and creepy. Some may have bones through their noses, others may not, some were covered in coloured clay, one may even have a pineapple on the head, however you want it. And yes, toots and screeches. (Oh and make that with torches.)
The three englishmen were no doubt in trouble, and were tossed into a soup pot.
The chief, recognized by being the only fat one in the crowd and the one to have the biggest headgear, presents himself to the strewing three.
“White man number one.” He says to the one on the far right.
“You must choose.” He boomed in a deep voice. ” Death. Or CHICHI.”
“Oh dear.” Whimpered white man number one. “Oh dear. Well. I certainly don’t want to die. Alright. I choose chichi. Whatever it is it can’t be so bad as death, which is a terribly nasty thing, as empirical evidence seems to suggest…”
The chief rolls his eyes for a minute and declaired loudly, “Very well then. White man number one, chooses CHICHI.”
The drummers go insane. Nearby, a volcano gargles. Women shreek and dance.
White man number one is tossed onto the ground in what appears to be a playing field. A latch door from nowhere is opened, and its contents appear to be more vicious looking natives – the kind who don’t take to fruit. Without a blink they pounce on him, each one desperate to have a go, and they rip off his gonads. They fight over it through the bone-chilling screams of white man number one’s unimaginable pain. Munching sounds can be heard, and they are herded back behind the little latch door. Some still hungry. Of course.
White man number one writhes away in his own pool of blood, trembling.
“White man number two. You now, must choose.” The chief says again, his face completely inscrutable, as if to say, paper, or plastic?
White man number two, frought with psychological abuse from what he had just witnessed alongside stewing in his own juices, yelps for “I’LL TAKE THE CHICHI! NEVER GIVE UP! NEVER SURRENDER!”
And off the latch door is opened, and off the hungry cannibals come running after him, and off they rip only his gonads for some mysterious reason, and the deathly screams for mercy pierce through the jungles. (Exciting a few howler monkeys a few hundred yards away.)
“White man number three.” Boomed the chief, yet to prove his capability to use pronouns or not. “Now you must choose. ”
“Oh God.” whispered white man number three to himself, watching two of his comrades now barely twitching in their own pools of blood. “Oh, I’d rather take DEATH than go through the pain they’re going through!”
The chief, for once showing a glint of emotion, nods slightly, as if impressed. “Very well then, white man number three.” Boomed the chief. There was a dramatic pause.
posted by Kat Rahmat at 10:34 PM