A blind old cowboy wanders into a bar, unaware it’s packed wall-to-wall with tough, no-nonsense biker women. He makes his way to the bar, feels around until he finds a stool, and orders a Jack Daniels like he owns the joint.
After a couple sips, he casually asks, “Hey, mind if I tell a blonde joke?”
The place falls dead silent.
A deep voice beside him cuts through the tension: “Before you go any further, old-timer, let me help you out since you can’t see. The bartender? Blonde—and she keeps a baseball bat under the bar. The bouncer? Also blonde, and she’s real fond of her nightstick. I’m a six-foot blonde with a black belt in karate. To my left is a blonde who bench-presses motorcycles. And the lady on your right? A pro wrestler who once suplexed a bear.”
She leans in close and says, “Now… you still wanna tell that joke?”
The cowboy pauses, then says, “Not if I have to repeat the punchline five times.”
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