More than a number
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So, a young fella is making his way across the Australian Outback when he realizes he's in a town, only got 1/2 a tank of fuel left and it's over 270km till the next chance to fill up. Reluctantly, he climbs out of his car and strolls into the local pub for a quick beer. Standing all around him are dirty, wiry old men all turned a peculiar shade of orange by the red dirt and the sun's scorching heat. As his eyes become accustomed to the light his attention turns to the odd practise going on around him. "47" - "Ha Ha Ha" "29" - (roars with laughter) "14" - "Groans" Sensing her new patron was more than a little confused, the barmaid offers him a tip to help make sense of it all. "See" she says, "It's such a small town, we get so few new fellas and sheilas through here that the boys have remembered all of the jokes" "Uh-huh" he murmurs, sipping on his beer slowly. When he orders his next beer again she ventures some information, saying that because there are no new jokes migrating to the town, that all of the jokes known by the townsfolk have been simply given a number. Ahhhh! The penny finally drops.. They're telling jokes! Ordering another beer, the bar-maid encourages him to join in. Drawing breath he loudly and clearly but nervously announces "73". Nothing. Not a single voice fills the air. Not a giggle or a sniff. Panicking, he scans the room for the soothing sight of a friendly eye. Finally, a little fella up the front pipes-up "Maa-ate, it's not the bloody joke what's important. Mate, it's all in the way you tell it"
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So, a young fella is making his way across the Australian Outback when he realizes he's in a town, only got 1/2 a tank of fuel left and it's over 270km till the next chance to fill up. Reluctantly, he climbs out of his car and strolls into the local pub for a quick beer. Standing all around him are dirty, wiry old men all turned a peculiar shade of orange by the red dirt and the sun's scorching heat. As his eyes become accustomed to the light his attention turns to the odd practise going on around him. "47" - "Ha Ha Ha" "29" - (roars with laughter) "14" - "Groans" Sensing her new patron was more than a little confused, the barmaid offers him a tip to help make sense of it all. "See" she says, "It's such a small town, we get so few new fellas and sheilas through here that the boys have remembered all of the jokes" "Uh-huh" he murmurs, sipping on his beer slowly. When he orders his next beer again she ventures some information, saying that because there are no new jokes migrating to the town, that all of the jokes known by the townsfolk have been simply given a number. Ahhhh! The penny finally drops.. They're telling jokes! Ordering another beer, the bar-maid encourages him to join in. Drawing breath he loudly and clearly but nervously announces "73". Nothing. Not a single voice fills the air. Not a giggle or a sniff. Panicking, he scans the room for the soothing sight of a friendly eye. Finally, a little fella up the front pipes-up "Maa-ate, it's not the bloody joke what's important. Mate, it's all in the way you tell it"
