How many blondes does it take to screw in a light bulb?
None. Each blonde must sit in the dark and confront nothingness and, by extension, death. Only then can she choose to become something authentic—like a depressed artist, a chain-smoking novelist, or a beret-wearing loafer who sits in coffee shops all day rambling about Hegel.
How do you drown a blonde?
Remind her that life is inane, repetitive, and intrinsically meaningless.
How do you know if a blonde’s been using your computer?
Your screen is covered in Wite-Out, and your desk is covered in Wite-Out, and so is your chair and your filing cabinet and every other object in your home office.
And this shocks you, and you stand there, stunned, until the significance of the blonde’s Wite-Out spree hits you like a two-by-four.
Nothing can be erased.
We are condemned to be free, and each of our acts is an indelible stamp on everyone we’ve ever touched.
What do you do when a blonde throws a grenade at you?
Lament the absurdity of a world where science is used for war.
Two blondes are trapped in a well.
The first blonde says, “It’s dark in here, isn’t it?”
The second blonde replies, “I don’t know, I can’t see what you see. I suppose being trapped in a well is just another banal allegory for being locked in the prison of our own experience.”
The first blonde replies, “Yeah, I guess even jokes are all kind of a footnote to Kant.”
The second blonde smiles and says, “And Plato, too, Becky.”
How do you confuse a blonde?
Give her a slip of paper that says, “If you are free, turn this over.”
On the other side it says, “I knew you would do that.”
Two blondes are lost in the mall. So they find a map with a big red arrow next to the words “YOU ARE LOST.”
One blonde looks at the other and says, “Wow! How do they know that?”
“We need to find the person who made this sign!” the second blonde says.
So the blondes set off to find the Creator of the Sign, and their search is interminable.
And the blondes wander and wander, eternally condemned to subsist on free Auntie Anne’s samples, an occasional Cinnabon, and the promise of cute tie-dyed linen popover shirts at the Gap for thirty-five per cent off.
What’s long and hard to a blonde?
A conversation with a brunette who keeps pronouncing Nietzsche “Knee-chee.”
A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead are lost in the desert. They find a lamp in the sand and rub it. Nothing happens. The brunette says, “Isn’t a genie supposed to pop out?”
The blonde replies, “Look, a creature that grants wishes sounds great on paper. But magically changing reality on a whim would subvert our ability to take responsibility for our actions and would be antithetical to human existence. Today, we brought insufficient water and no map, and it’s a hundred and ten degrees out here. In about thirty minutes, the dizziness, headaches, and confusion will begin. A few hours later, seizures, rhabdomyolysis, and kidney failure. We thought that this would be a Sunday Funday, but our ill-preparedness has turned this into quite the opposite of a Sunday Funday.”
The redhead sighs and says, “Yeah, but isn’t it funnier if a genie pops out? Because then there can be, like, high jinks.”
A blind man walks into a bar. He sits down and says, “Who wants to hear a dumb-blonde joke?”
The bartender says, “I’m actually blond! But I’d love to hear your joke, since stereotypes about my hair color help me explore my sense of anxiety about things I can’t control.”
The blind guy says, “O.K., great. What do you do when a blonde throws a grenade at you?”
The bartender says, “Wait, I just heard this one. You look familiar. Didn’t you come in here yesterday and tell the same joke?”
The blind man says, “Yeah, but I had no choice. I was convicted of shoplifting hair dye and a judge sentenced me to retell that joke over and over in bars.”
The bartender says, “Hair dye?” So the blind man takes off his hat.
The bartender says, “Ah, you’re blond too. You know what, go ahead and tell it. A joke with no element of surprise helps me explore my anxiety about death, which is also really nice.”
How do you make a blonde laugh on Saturday?
Tell her on Friday night that God has abandoned us, then let her sleep it off.
