A movie exec walks into a bar ...
THE FIFTH COLUMN
A movie exec walks into a bar and joins an ex-sitcom star and a president. “Pussy Riot,” he says, ogling the performers on stage. “Great band.”
“Amazing band!” the ex-sitcom star agrees excitedly. “Great name!” the president chimes in.
A waitress walks up to them. “What will it be, gentlemen?” she asks.
“We”ll have the band, but hold the riot,” the ex-sitcom star pipes up, sniggering unashamedly.
“We don’t have that,” the waitress retorts sharply. “But I can get you a restraining order.”
“Okay, what beer do you have?” the ex-sitcom star asks.
“Bone Crusher,” she says. “On tap.”
The response sends a shock wave around the table and the three men sit in stunned silence as she leaves.
“You really embarrassed us there, Bill,” the movie exec says to the ex-sitcom star. “Things have changed; you have to be subtle. Watch this.”
The movie exec calls the waitress back, lowering his head in mock shame. “Sorry about that,” he says, adding: “We”ll have three Virgin Marys,” in a subtly suggestive tone.
The waitress turns on her heel and comes back with three nuns named Mary. The men look at each other and then to the nuns. “Who’s your daddy?” the president blurts out.
The nuns leave and return with Fathers Emil, Roland and Gary, who join the men at the table.
“What’s up, gents?” Father Emil asks cheerfully. “Anything to confess?”
“I have,” says the ex-sitcom star, still humiliated by his earlier faux pas. “I confess that the world has officially gone off the rails.”
“What makes you say that, my son?” Father Emil asks, concerned.
“Look around you, Father,” he says, brimming with emotion. “Here we are: three perfectly healthy, good-looking and, might I add, hugely successful men in a fully heterosexual bar sharing a table with, no offence, six celibates. It’s ludicrous.”
“I agree,” Father Gary breaks in. “Not with the celibate part,” he says, winking at the other priests. “But with the going-off-the-rails part. It’s like even being in the vicinity of a woman these days is harassment or whatever. Everyone has become so sensitive, so ‘gender aware’,” he says, framing the last two words theatrically with inverted commas.
By now a crowd of men has gathered around the table and is hanging on Father Gary’s every word.
“I don’t mean to preach, but what became of This is a Man’s World? ” he asks to loud cheers. “Where are all the James Bonds, the Hugh Hefners, sowing their wild oats at will?” he shouts, hitting the table with his fist.
Just then, Pussy Riot lays into the second verse of their hit song Straight Outta Vagina, sending the damning words “Vaginas gonna win the race/ Vaginas gonna play in space” on a collision course with the movie exec’s eardrums.
He turns to the president. “Who’s up next?” he asks.
The president grabs a flyer and scans it. “An all-female ballet troupe,” he says, pausing for a moment before looking up with raised eyebrows. “Performing The Nutcracker.”