Monk Joke

Three monks walk into a pub.

The first one goes up to the barman and asks for a pint of bitter.

No, that’s wrong.

Three monks walk into an airport lounge.

The first monk goes up to the information desk and asks if they have any duty-free porn.

The barman says, “Hop it sonny Jim; we don’t serve Muslims in here.”

The second monk explains to the barman that his Benedictine habit is not a burka and tries to enlighten the barman by embarking upon a protracted theological explanation about the sartorial differences between Muslim women and Benedictine monks, which takes longer than it should have done, seeing as it can be summed up in two words: no mask.

Where were we? Oh, yes.

So, these three strippers walk into a monastery at the end of their shift.

The first one knocks on the imposing wooden door.

The door slowly creaks open, seemingly of its own volition. Although, thinking about it, ‘volition’ is probably too fancy a word for this joke.

The door slowly creaks open, seemingly all by itself. Mind you, the phrase ‘all by itself’ is a bit ambiguous, don’t you think? As if by magic? As if it had free will? As if… what’s the word for when you do something voluntarily? It has the same root. Volition. That’s it.

The door slowly creaks open, seemingly of its own volition, and a voice calls out.

‘I’m not sure there’s such a thing as duty-free porn, but you could try WHSmiths,’ says the woman at the Airport Lounge Information Desk, because she has been to a Politeness Awareness seminar (although, you do find yourself asking, ‘How likely is it that it was a real seminar?’ don’t you?) and has learnt the importance of being polite to all customers/clients, irrespective of whether they actually deserve it. ‘Think of the customer as a terrorist,’ the Politeness Awareness seminar leader, whose background was in biscuit-tin marketing, had said.

So the first monk goes to WHSmiths and buys a copy of Hello magazine, which is apparently the closest thing they have to duty-free porn.

The second monk finishes his protracted theological explanation about the different clothing habits of, respectively, Benedictine monks and Muslim women, and orders a pint of bitter.

‘I thought you Muslims weren’t allowed to drink,’ says the barman.

‘Why are you naked?’ asks the voice.

The three strippers had become inured to their nudity and had forgotten to dress at the end of their shift.

The first stripper spies a dress hanging from the branches of a tree, pulls it down and puts it on. It’s hardly Versace but it does the job.

Now, at some point in the joke, there is a ‘reveal’, where we learn that the strippers are, in fact, male strippers, and you sit there thinking, ‘Ah! So I’m not as reconstructed as I thought I was,’ and you go for a top-up of cultural Marxism at the BBC’s new shopping channel, which is being hosted by the Dream of Scottish Independence’s still twitching (nice oxymoron) corpse, but I can’t remember at which point the ‘reveal’ comes because, as you may have gathered, I’m not very good at telling jokes.

Where were we? Oh, yes.

Two Muslim women walk into a monastery.

‘Welcome home boys!’ says the short-sighted Abbot.

No! Sorry, wait.

Two nuns in a car.

One says to the other, ‘Where’s the punch line?’

And the other says, ‘Why? Is this a joke?’

It’s all in the delivery, folks.