A cop stops a farmer in a wagon, wanting to know what he is carrying.
“If it’s only hay, why are you whispering?” the cop wants to know.
“I don’t want the horse to hear,” the farmer answers.
A Russian has finally saved enough rubles to buy a new Lada, so he takes them to the proper bureau and purchases the new vehicle.
“Your production number is 5,394,238,” he is told. “The car will be delivered on July 16, 1998.”
“In the morning or the afternoon?” the Russian wants to know.
“1998 is eight years from now,” the clerk points out. “What difference does it make, morning or afternoon?”
“That’s the day the refrigerator repair man is supposed to come,” the Russian answers.
A high school zoology teacher is giving his class an oral final. He calls on the first student, holds up a stuffed rabbit, and asks the student, “What is this?”
The student looks at him blankly, coughs a couple of times, finally stammers, “I don’t know.”
“You flunk,” the teacher tells him. “Send in the next one.”
The second student comes into the room. The teacher again holds up the rabbit and asks, “What is this animal called?” The second student looks at him blankly, shuffles his feet, finally admits, “I don’t know.”
“You flunk,” the teacher says. “Send in the next one.”
The third student enters the room, the teacher holds up the stuffed rabbit. “What is this named?” he wants to know. The third student looks at him as blankly as the previous two. “I don’t know.”
This is more than the exasperated teacher can take. “What the hell do you mean you don’t know?” he shouts. “What have we been talking about all year?”
The student’s eyes brighten. “This is Karl Marx,” he says confidently.
A reporter working on a television story about the world meat crisis flies with cameraman and crew to Rumania. He approaches a Rumanian on the street and asks, “Pardon me, sir, what do you think of the world meat shortage?”
The Rumanian looks puzzled, scratches his head. “Meat?” he wants to know. “What do you mean by this word meat?”
So the reporter flies to America, asks an American in the street, “Pardon me, sir, what do you think of the world meat shortage?”
The puzzled American scratches his head. “Shortage?” he wants to know. What do you mean shortage?”
So the reporter flies to Warsaw, sets up his camera, stops the first Pole walking out of the Palace of Culture: “Excuse me, sir, what do you think of the world meat shortage?”
The Pole looks puzzled, scratches his head. “Think?” he wants to know. “What do you mean by this word think?”
Undaunted, the reporter flies to Frankfurt, sets up one more time, asks the first German he sees the same question: “Pardon me, sir, what do you think of the world meat shortage?”
The German, genuinely puzzled, scratches his head: “Pardon me? What is meant by these words pardon me?”
A Polish cop gets off work and hurries home to help his wife with her name day party. “Is there anything I can do to help, honey?” he wants to know.
“Yes,” his wife tells him. “If you want, maybe you could write my name on this cake I bought. That would be a help.”
The cop wanders off with the cake, fumbles about in the next room for ten minutes, finally returns. “I don’t think this is going to work,” he reports; “I can’t get the cake in the typewriter.”
The Little Devil is out collecting his due. He pops through the ground in Leningrad in front of a startled Russian. “I am a Little Devil,” he announces. “Here is my pitchfork and here is my pail, and I am come to collect my due.”
The Russian looks at him in disgust. “You stupid,” he says. “Is here nothing to collect. Go to America, there is plenty of things.”
So the Little Devil is off to America, pops through a sidewalk in downtown Dallas, right in front of a six-foot-four-inch Texan. “I am a Little Devil,” he announces, “and this is my pitchfork and here is my pail. I have come to collect my due.”
“Whoa, there boy,” the Texan tells him. “You go stealin’ stuff around here, you gonna end up dead or in jail. Go over to Poland; they’re a little more relaxed than folks in these parts.”
So the Little Devil goes off to Kraków, pops up right in the middle of the Old Market Place close to St. Mary’s cathedral. “I am a Little Devil,” he announces to the first Pole he sees. “This is my pitchfork and this… now what became of that pail?”
Early in 1989, when the Communist Party began losing support, one card-carrier suggested a membership drive. His colleagues thought this was a good idea, and the following proposal was adopted: any member who brought in a new member would receive an award of 1,000,000 złotych. Any member who brought in two new members would receive an award of 2,000,000 złotych and he would have his own membership in the Party canceled. Any member who brought in three new members would receive a reward of 3,000,000 złotych, would have his own membership canceled, and would receive a letter from the precinct chairman saying that he had never belonged to the Party.
Three men—a Pole, a Puerto-Rican, and an American—fall out of the twelfth story window at the same time. Which one hits the ground first?
The American.
The Puerto-Rican stops to spray graffiti on the walls on the way down. And the Pole has to go back three times to ask directions.
One engine on a trans-Atlantic jetliner dies and, despite the pilot’s best efforts, the plane starts losing altitude. The crew jettisons meals, equipment, finally even luggage, but still the plane drops toward the water. Passengers and crew unbolt seats and bulkheads, unload them, and still the plane loses altitude. Finally the group decides there is only one thing left to do:
some passengers will have to go. The passenger list is inspected, and four names are drawn, representing each of the four nationalities on board.
“For God and the Queen,” the crew tells the Brit.
“For God and the Queen,” shouts the Brit as he jumps out the door.
“For the Red Army,” they tell the Russian.
“For the Red Army,” shouts the Russian as he jumps out the door.
“Everybody’s doing it,” they tell the Frenchman. “It’s the fashion.”
Then comes the Pole. They try everything on the Pole: God, country, the Polish army, his moral duty. He will have none of it, and still the airplane has not leveled off.
“It’s no use,” the steward tells the pilot. “This guy will never do it.”
“Oh yeah?” cries the Pole. “Who says?…”
The same jetliner is in the same trouble, and the crew settles on the same solution. “For God and the Queen,” shouts a Brit as he jumps. “For the Lone Star State,” shouts a Texan and jumps. “For the Polish Republic,” shouts a Pole, pushing a Russian out the door.
Did you know Lech Wałęsa will be president only until the end of September?
Yeah? Why?
Because school begins in October.
Former communist premier Edward Gierek, visiting Silesia on a good will tour, meets a worker and his family in their home. In front of the television cameras he talks with the family’s small boy. “So, little boy, do you have a nice flat to live in?”
“Yes, sir,” replies the boy; “We have a lovely flat with nice furniture.”
“Do you have a nice television to watch?”
“We have a television set and we watch it all the time.”
“And does your daddy have a nice car?”
“My daddy has a Fiat Polonaise and takes us driving every Sunday.”
“Well you know, little boy,” the premier says, as much to the camera as to the child, “I am the man who makes all of these good things possible.”
The kid runs excitedly into the kitchen yelling, “Mommie! Daddie! Uncle Wolfgang is here!”
Gierek is visiting another little boy, this one less advantaged than the first. He asks him, “If you could have anything in the world, anything at all, what would you want?”
The kid asks for a television set with windshield wipers.
“Why the wipers?” Gierek wants to know.
“Because every time my dad is watching TV and your face appears on the screen, he spits at it,” answers the boy.
Two brothers are separated in 1939, one sent to Siberia, the other to Germany. After the war, the German prisoner is repatriated to Poland, but the other remains in Siberia. Then, in 1987, a reporter at Polish television gets wind of the story, and he knows somebody at Russian television headquarters, and they track down the missing brother, now living in Minsk. A joyous reunion is arranged in Moscow, in Red Square, before television cameras.
The Polish brother flies in with a Polish television crew, and a whole bunch of dignitaries. The brother from Minsk comes also to Moscow with an even larger entourage of dignitaries. Across the great square, all decorated with red banners and roses, the illustrious Polish delegation approaches an equally illustrious array of Soviet dignitaries. Television cameras record the historic moment. With the delegations still at a great distance, the man from Poland rushes to one man in the crowd of Russians, throws his arms around him, and kisses his long-lost brother.
“This is amazing,” somebody from television says. “How did you know it was him in such a great crowd, at such a great distance, after so many years?”
“Easy,” says the Polish brother. “I recognized the coat he is wearing.”
A bear, a fox, and a wolf are playing cards. After half an hour, the bear announces, “Someone is cheating, and I will not embarrass the red-furred one by naming him.”
What’s black and white and runs away when called?
A Polish waiter.
An older woman, testing the loyalty of her three sons-in-law, invites them individually to visit the family cottage in the Polish Lake District. The oldest daughter and her husband come first. The mother prepares a great dinner and, after all is finished, walks to the end of the dock and throws herself into the lake. “Help me!” she shouts. “Help me, my dear son, I can’t swim.”
The son-in-law rushes out the door, runs to the end of the dock, jumps in the water and rescues the woman. Next morning the young couple awakens to find a brand new white Fiat Polonaise 127 parked in the driveway. On the windshield is a note: “Thank you, my dear son. I know now you love me. Signed, your loving mother-in-law.”
Then the woman invites her second oldest daughter and her husband. Once again, after dinner she throws herself in the lake, and is rescued once again by her son-in-law. The couple awakens the next morning to find a new red Polski Fiat 126 parked in the driveway with a note on the windshield: “Thank you, thank you, my dear son. I know now that you love me. Signed, your loving mother-in-law.”
Finally the woman invites her youngest daughter and her husband. After a huge evening meal, she walks to the end of the dock and throws herself in the water. “Help me, help me, my
dear son,” she shouts. “I can’t swim.” The husband of her youngest daughter hears the noise, walks to the door and listens carefully. Then he slams the door and returns to drinking vodka with his father-in-law.
The next morning the couple awakens to find a brand new Mercedes 200 in the driveway with a note on the windshield: “Thank you, thank you, my dear son. I now know you love me. Signed, your loving father-in-law.”
A Soviet soldier and a Polish soldier on border patrol near Brest get to talking things over. “It’s a hard life, comrade,” complains the Soviet soldier.
“A hard life indeed,” the Pole replies.
“They treating you okay?” the Soviet wants to know.
“Not so bad,” the Pole replies. “And you?”
“Okay,” the Soviet answers. “You got warm clothes this freezing winter?”
“Yeah, we got new coats this winter, so it’s not so bad. How about you?”
“Well, I’m warm enough,” says the Soviet. “And boots?”
“Not the best, but they keep my feet warm. We were issued new boots this winter, and they are holding up. How about you?”
“They are not the best either, but my feet will survive until spring. You eating okay?”
“I’m okay on food,” says the Pole. “We get our 2,500 calories a day.”
“Comrade,” replies the startled Soviet, “do not make up stories. No man can eat 50 pounds of potatoes in one day!”
A Pole worried about his health visits the doctor. “So how long do I have?” he wants to know.
“You smoke cigarettes?” the doctor wants to know.
“Never,” the man replies.
“You drink much vodka?” the doctor asks.
“Never touch the stuff.”
“You chase around with many women?”
“No, I never chase women.”
“What do you care how long you live?”
A man returns early in the morning to a bar in which he’d spent the previous night. “Is it true I drank 100,000 złotych worth of vodka here last night?” he wants to know.
“You did in fact drink 100,000 złotych worth of vodka last night,” the bartender assures him.
“Thank god,” the man says, greatly relieved. “I was afraid I’d lost that money!”
A Polish monk is transported in a vision to deepest Hell. It is something out of Dante, exactly what he always pictured: insufferable red heat, a constant din of lamentation, enormous caldrons filled with grotesque distortions of the human form, stews of suffering sinners kept in perpetual boil by flames below. Using iron pitchforks, grotesque demons with leathery wings and scabby tails toss those who would escape their caldrons back into the bubbling oil.
Upon close examination, the monk notes that the caldrons are segregated by nationality:
Germans in one, Italians in another, Russians in a third. He also notes that one caldron is entirely unguarded, although it boils as intensely as the others.
“How is it,” he asks his guide, “that no demons guard this caldron, yet no man or woman escapes?”
“These are Poles,” he is told. “We need no guards here. Should anyone climb only a few feet above the surface of suffering, his neighbors will pull him back down.”
A man sits down in a Polish restaurant, orders red borscht, pork cutlet, potatoes, cabbage salad. The waiter brings him his soup, and it’s not red borscht, but chicken with noodles. The man complains: “I ordered red borscht, but you brought me chicken broth.”
“Look, friend,” the waiter tells him, “soup is soup, okay?”
The man thinks to himself, “What the hell, these are hard times. I’ve had a lot of chicken soup in my life. Soup is soup.”
When his dinner arrives, it is not pork but chicken. “I ordered pork,” the man complains to the waiter; “but you brought me chicken.”
“Look, friend,” the waiter replies, “meat is meat. We’re out of pork, okay? Meat is meat. This is a good dinner.”
The man thinks to himself, “What the hell—I like chicken. Meat is meat.”
The man finishes his meal, asks for his check. The bill is 12,000 złotych (this is an old joke). The man takes out a 1,000 złotych note, leaves it and the bill on the plate, and heads for the door.
The waiter is on him in a flash. “Hey, the bill was 12,000 and you left only 1,000!”
“Look, friend,” the customer tells him, “money is money, you know?”
A cop stops a farmer in a wagon, wanting to know what he is carrying.
“If it’s only hay, why are you whispering?” the cop wants to know.
“I don’t want the horse to hear,” the farmer answers.
A Russian has finally saved enough rubles to buy a new Lada, so he takes them to the proper bureau and purchases the new vehicle.
“Your production number is 5,394,238,” he is told. “The car will be delivered on July 16, 1998.”
“In the morning or the afternoon?” the Russian wants to know.
“1998 is eight years from now,” the clerk points out. “What difference does it make, morning or afternoon?”
“That’s the day the refrigerator repair man is supposed to come,” the Russian answers.
A high school zoology teacher is giving his class an oral final. He calls on the first student, holds up a stuffed rabbit, and asks the student, “What is this?”
The student looks at him blankly, coughs a couple of times, finally stammers, “I don’t know.”
“You flunk,” the teacher tells him. “Send in the next one.”
The second student comes into the room. The teacher again holds up the rabbit and asks, “What is this animal called?” The second student looks at him blankly, shuffles his feet, finally admits, “I don’t know.”
“You flunk,” the teacher says. “Send in the next one.”
The third student enters the room, the teacher holds up the stuffed rabbit. “What is this named?” he wants to know. The third student looks at him as blankly as the previous two. “I don’t know.”
This is more than the exasperated teacher can take. “What the hell do you mean you don’t know?” he shouts. “What have we been talking about all year?”
The student’s eyes brighten. “This is Karl Marx,” he says confidently.
A reporter working on a television story about the world meat crisis flies with cameraman and crew to Rumania. He approaches a Rumanian on the street and asks, “Pardon me, sir, what do you think of the world meat shortage?”
The Rumanian looks puzzled, scratches his head. “Meat?” he wants to know. “What do you mean by this word meat?”
So the reporter flies to America, asks an American in the street, “Pardon me, sir, what do you think of the world meat shortage?”
The puzzled American scratches his head. “Shortage?” he wants to know. What do you mean shortage?”
So the reporter flies to Warsaw, sets up his camera, stops the first Pole walking out of the Palace of Culture: “Excuse me, sir, what do you think of the world meat shortage?”
The Pole looks puzzled, scratches his head. “Think?” he wants to know. “What do you mean by this word think?”
Undaunted, the reporter flies to Frankfurt, sets up one more time, asks the first German he sees the same question: “Pardon me, sir, what do you think of the world meat shortage?”
The German, genuinely puzzled, scratches his head: “Pardon me? What is meant by these words pardon me?”
A Polish cop gets off work and hurries home to help his wife with her name day party. “Is there anything I can do to help, honey?” he wants to know.
“Yes,” his wife tells him. “If you want, maybe you could write my name on this cake I bought. That would be a help.”
The cop wanders off with the cake, fumbles about in the next room for ten minutes, finally returns. “I don’t think this is going to work,” he reports; “I can’t get the cake in the typewriter.”
The Little Devil is out collecting his due. He pops through the ground in Leningrad in front of a startled Russian. “I am a Little Devil,” he announces. “Here is my pitchfork and here is my pail, and I am come to collect my due.”
The Russian looks at him in disgust. “You stupid,” he says. “Is here nothing to collect. Go to America, there is plenty of things.”
So the Little Devil is off to America, pops through a sidewalk in downtown Dallas, right in front of a six-foot-four-inch Texan. “I am a Little Devil,” he announces, “and this is my pitchfork and here is my pail. I have come to collect my due.”
“Whoa, there boy,” the Texan tells him. “You go stealin’ stuff around here, you gonna end up dead or in jail. Go over to Poland; they’re a little more relaxed than folks in these parts.”
So the Little Devil goes off to Kraków, pops up right in the middle of the Old Market Place close to St. Mary’s cathedral. “I am a Little Devil,” he announces to the first Pole he sees. “This is my pitchfork and this… now what became of that pail?”
Early in 1989, when the Communist Party began losing support, one card-carrier suggested a membership drive. His colleagues thought this was a good idea, and the following proposal was adopted: any member who brought in a new member would receive an award of 1,000,000 złotych. Any member who brought in two new members would receive an award of 2,000,000 złotych and he would have his own membership in the Party canceled. Any member who brought in three new members would receive a reward of 3,000,000 złotych, would have his own membership canceled, and would receive a letter from the precinct chairman saying that he had never belonged to the Party.
Three men—a Pole, a Puerto-Rican, and an American—fall out of the twelfth story window at the same time. Which one hits the ground first?
The American.
The Puerto-Rican stops to spray graffiti on the walls on the way down. And the Pole has to go back three times to ask directions.
One engine on a trans-Atlantic jetliner dies and, despite the pilot’s best efforts, the plane starts losing altitude. The crew jettisons meals, equipment, finally even luggage, but still the plane drops toward the water. Passengers and crew unbolt seats and bulkheads, unload them, and still the plane loses altitude. Finally the group decides there is only one thing left to do:
some passengers will have to go. The passenger list is inspected, and four names are drawn, representing each of the four nationalities on board.
“For God and the Queen,” the crew tells the Brit.
“For God and the Queen,” shouts the Brit as he jumps out the door.
“For the Red Army,” they tell the Russian.
“For the Red Army,” shouts the Russian as he jumps out the door.
“Everybody’s doing it,” they tell the Frenchman. “It’s the fashion.”
Then comes the Pole. They try everything on the Pole: God, country, the Polish army, his moral duty. He will have none of it, and still the airplane has not leveled off.
“It’s no use,” the steward tells the pilot. “This guy will never do it.”
“Oh yeah?” cries the Pole. “Who says?…”
The same jetliner is in the same trouble, and the crew settles on the same solution. “For God and the Queen,” shouts a Brit as he jumps. “For the Lone Star State,” shouts a Texan and jumps. “For the Polish Republic,” shouts a Pole, pushing a Russian out the door.
Did you know Lech Wałęsa will be president only until the end of September?
Yeah? Why?
Because school begins in October.
Former communist premier Edward Gierek, visiting Silesia on a good will tour, meets a worker and his family in their home. In front of the television cameras he talks with the family’s small boy. “So, little boy, do you have a nice flat to live in?”
“Yes, sir,” replies the boy; “We have a lovely flat with nice furniture.”
“Do you have a nice television to watch?”
“We have a television set and we watch it all the time.”
“And does your daddy have a nice car?”
“My daddy has a Fiat Polonaise and takes us driving every Sunday.”
“Well you know, little boy,” the premier says, as much to the camera as to the child, “I am the man who makes all of these good things possible.”
The kid runs excitedly into the kitchen yelling, “Mommie! Daddie! Uncle Wolfgang is here!”
Gierek is visiting another little boy, this one less advantaged than the first. He asks him, “If you could have anything in the world, anything at all, what would you want?”
The kid asks for a television set with windshield wipers.
“Why the wipers?” Gierek wants to know.
“Because every time my dad is watching TV and your face appears on the screen, he spits at it,” answers the boy.
Two brothers are separated in 1939, one sent to Siberia, the other to Germany. After the war, the German prisoner is repatriated to Poland, but the other remains in Siberia. Then, in 1987, a reporter at Polish television gets wind of the story, and he knows somebody at Russian television headquarters, and they track down the missing brother, now living in Minsk. A joyous reunion is arranged in Moscow, in Red Square, before television cameras.
The Polish brother flies in with a Polish television crew, and a whole bunch of dignitaries. The brother from Minsk comes also to Moscow with an even larger entourage of dignitaries. Across the great square, all decorated with red banners and roses, the illustrious Polish delegation approaches an equally illustrious array of Soviet dignitaries. Television cameras record the historic moment. With the delegations still at a great distance, the man from Poland rushes to one man in the crowd of Russians, throws his arms around him, and kisses his long-lost brother.
“This is amazing,” somebody from television says. “How did you know it was him in such a great crowd, at such a great distance, after so many years?”
“Easy,” says the Polish brother. “I recognized the coat he is wearing.”
A bear, a fox, and a wolf are playing cards. After half an hour, the bear announces, “Someone is cheating, and I will not embarrass the red-furred one by naming him.”
What’s black and white and runs away when called?
A Polish waiter.
An older woman, testing the loyalty of her three sons-in-law, invites them individually to visit the family cottage in the Polish Lake District. The oldest daughter and her husband come first. The mother prepares a great dinner and, after all is finished, walks to the end of the dock and throws herself into the lake. “Help me!” she shouts. “Help me, my dear son, I can’t swim.”
The son-in-law rushes out the door, runs to the end of the dock, jumps in the water and rescues the woman. Next morning the young couple awakens to find a brand new white Fiat Polonaise 127 parked in the driveway. On the windshield is a note: “Thank you, my dear son. I know now you love me. Signed, your loving mother-in-law.”
Then the woman invites her second oldest daughter and her husband. Once again, after dinner she throws herself in the lake, and is rescued once again by her son-in-law. The couple awakens the next morning to find a new red Polski Fiat 126 parked in the driveway with a note on the windshield: “Thank you, thank you, my dear son. I know now that you love me. Signed, your loving mother-in-law.”
Finally the woman invites her youngest daughter and her husband. After a huge evening meal, she walks to the end of the dock and throws herself in the water. “Help me, help me, my
dear son,” she shouts. “I can’t swim.” The husband of her youngest daughter hears the noise, walks to the door and listens carefully. Then he slams the door and returns to drinking vodka with his father-in-law.
The next morning the couple awakens to find a brand new Mercedes 200 in the driveway with a note on the windshield: “Thank you, thank you, my dear son. I now know you love me. Signed, your loving father-in-law.”
A Soviet soldier and a Polish soldier on border patrol near Brest get to talking things over. “It’s a hard life, comrade,” complains the Soviet soldier.
“A hard life indeed,” the Pole replies.
“They treating you okay?” the Soviet wants to know.
“Not so bad,” the Pole replies. “And you?”
“Okay,” the Soviet answers. “You got warm clothes this freezing winter?”
“Yeah, we got new coats this winter, so it’s not so bad. How about you?”
“Well, I’m warm enough,” says the Soviet. “And boots?”
“Not the best, but they keep my feet warm. We were issued new boots this winter, and they are holding up. How about you?”
“They are not the best either, but my feet will survive until spring. You eating okay?”
“I’m okay on food,” says the Pole. “We get our 2,500 calories a day.”
“Comrade,” replies the startled Soviet, “do not make up stories. No man can eat 50 pounds of potatoes in one day!”
A Pole worried about his health visits the doctor. “So how long do I have?” he wants to know.
“You smoke cigarettes?” the doctor wants to know.
“Never,” the man replies.
“You drink much vodka?” the doctor asks.
“Never touch the stuff.”
“You chase around with many women?”
“No, I never chase women.”
“What do you care how long you live?”
A man returns early in the morning to a bar in which he’d spent the previous night. “Is it true I drank 100,000 złotych worth of vodka here last night?” he wants to know.
“You did in fact drink 100,000 złotych worth of vodka last night,” the bartender assures him.
“Thank god,” the man says, greatly relieved. “I was afraid I’d lost that money!”
A Polish monk is transported in a vision to deepest Hell. It is something out of Dante, exactly what he always pictured: insufferable red heat, a constant din of lamentation, enormous caldrons filled with grotesque distortions of the human form, stews of suffering sinners kept in perpetual boil by flames below. Using iron pitchforks, grotesque demons with leathery wings and scabby tails toss those who would escape their caldrons back into the bubbling oil.
Upon close examination, the monk notes that the caldrons are segregated by nationality:
Germans in one, Italians in another, Russians in a third. He also notes that one caldron is entirely unguarded, although it boils as intensely as the others.
“How is it,” he asks his guide, “that no demons guard this caldron, yet no man or woman escapes?”
“These are Poles,” he is told. “We need no guards here. Should anyone climb only a few feet above the surface of suffering, his neighbors will pull him back down.”
A man sits down in a Polish restaurant, orders red borscht, pork cutlet, potatoes, cabbage salad. The waiter brings him his soup, and it’s not red borscht, but chicken with noodles. The man complains: “I ordered red borscht, but you brought me chicken broth.”
“Look, friend,” the waiter tells him, “soup is soup, okay?”
The man thinks to himself, “What the hell, these are hard times. I’ve had a lot of chicken soup in my life. Soup is soup.”
When his dinner arrives, it is not pork but chicken. “I ordered pork,” the man complains to the waiter; “but you brought me chicken.”
“Look, friend,” the waiter replies, “meat is meat. We’re out of pork, okay? Meat is meat. This is a good dinner.”
The man thinks to himself, “What the hell—I like chicken. Meat is meat.”
The man finishes his meal, asks for his check. The bill is 12,000 złotych (this is an old joke). The man takes out a 1,000 złotych note, leaves it and the bill on the plate, and heads for the door.
The waiter is on him in a flash. “Hey, the bill was 12,000 and you left only 1,000!”
“Look, friend,” the customer tells him, “money is money, you know?”
