A guy has spent five years traveling all around the world making a documentary on native dances.
At the end of this time, he has every single dance of every single indigenous culture in the world. He winds up in Australia, in Alice Springs, so he pops into a pub for a well-earned beer. He gets talking to one of the local Aborigines and tells him about his project.
The Aborigine asks the guy what he thought of the Butcher Dance.
The guy's a bit confused and says, “Butcher Dance? What's that?”
“What? You haven't seen the Butcher Dance?”
“No, I've never heard of it.”
“Oh mate. You are crazy. How can you say you filmed every native dance if you haven't seen the Butcher Dance?”
“Umm. I got a corroboree on film just the other week. Is that
what you mean?”
"No no, not corroboree. Butcher Dance is much more important than corroboree.”
“Oh. Well how can I see this Butcher Dance then?”
“Mate, Butcher Dance is right out in th’ bush. It takes many days of travel to go see Butcher Dance.”
“Look, I've been everywhere from the forests of the Amazon, to deepest darkest Africa, to the frozen wastes of the Arctic, filming these dances. Nothing will prevent me from recording this one last dance!”
“OK, mate. You drive north along Stuart Highway towards Darwin. After you drive 250km, you'll see a dirt track off to the left. Follow the dirt track for 150km until you see a huge, dead gum tree – biggest tree you ever seen. Here you gotta leave the
car, because it's much too rough for driving. You strike out due West into the setting sun. You walk three days til you hit a creek. You follow this creek to northwest. After two days you reach a place where the creek flows out of rocky mountains. It's
much too difficult to cross the mountains here though. You now
head south for a half day til you see a pass through the mountains. The pass is very difficult and very dangerous. Takes two, maybe three days to get through the rocky pass. When you're through, head northwest for four days until you reach a big huge rock – 15m high and shaped like a man's head. From whi
rock, walk due west for two days and you reach a village. Here you'll see the Butcher Dance.”
So, the guy grabs his camera crew and equipment and heads out. After a couple of hours he finds the dirt track. The track is in a shocking state and he's forced to crawl along at a snail's pace and so he doesn't reach the tree until dusk, and he's forced
to set up camp for the night.
He sets out bright and early the following morning. His spirits
are high and he's excited about the prospect of capturing on film this mysterious dance which he has never heard mentioned before. True to the directions he has been given, he reaches the creek after three days and follows it for another two until he
reaches the rocky mountains. The merciless sun is starting to take its toll by this time and his spirits are starting to flag, but wearily he trudges on until he finds the pass through the hills, confident that nothing will prevent him from completing his life's dream.
The mountains prove to be every bit as treacherous as his guide said, and at times he almost despairs of getting his bulky equipment through. But after three and a half days of back
breaking effort he finally forces his way clear and continues his long trek. When he reaches the huge rock, four days later, his water is running low and his feet are covered with blisters. Yet he steels himself and heads out on the last leg of his journey.
Two days later he virtually staggers into the village where the Aborigines feed him and give him fresh water. He begins to feel like a new man. Once he's recovered enough, the guy goes
before the village Elder and tells him that he has come to film their Butcher Dance.
“Oh mate. It's very bad you come today. Butcher Dance last
night. You're too late. You missed the dance!”
“Well, when do you hold the next dance?”
“Not 'til next year!”
“Well, I've come all this way. Couldn't you just hold an extra dance for me, tonight?”
"No, no, no. Butcher Dance is very sacred. Only held once a year. If we hold more, the spirits get very angry. You want to see Butcher Dance? You come back next year.”
The guy is devastated, but he has no other option but to head back to civilization and back home.
The following year, he heads back to Australia and, determined not to miss out again, sets out a week earlier than
last time. He is quite willing to spend a week with the Aboriginal people before the dance is performed in order to ensure he is present to witness it. However, right from the start things go wrong.
Heavy rains that year have turned the dirt track to mud and the car gets bogged every few kilometres, finally forcing him to abandon his vehicle and slog through the mud on foot almost half the distance to the tree. He reaches the creek and the
mountains without any further hitch, but halfway through the ascent of the mountain he is struck by a fierce storm which rages for several days, during which he is forced to cling
forlornly to the mountainside until it subsides. It would be suicide to attempt to scale the treacherous paths in the face of such savage elements. Then, before he has travelled a kilometre out from the mountains, he sprains his ankle badly which slows down the rest of his journey to the rock enormously.
Eventually, having lost all sense of how long he has been travelling, he staggers into the community at about 12 noon.
“The Butcher Dance!” gasps the guy. “Please don't tell me I'm too late!”
The Elder recognises him and says, “No, whitefella, Butcher Dance performed tonight. You arrived just in time!”
Relieved beyond measure, he spends the rest of the afternoon setting up his equipment – preparing to capture the night's ritual on celluloid. As dusk falls, the Aborigines start to cover their bodies in white paint and adorn themselves in bird feathers and animal skins. Once darkness has settled fully over the land, the dancers form a circle around a huge roaring fire.
A deathly hush descends over the performers and spectators alike, as a wizened old figure with elaborate swirling designs covering his entire body enters the circle and begins to chant.
“Some sort of witch doctor or medicine man,” thinks the guy, and
he whispers to the Elder, “What's he doing?”
“Hush,”whispers the Elder. “You're the first whitefella to ever see the most sacred of our rituals. You must remain silent. This holy man, he asks that the spirits of the Dreaming watch as we demonstrate our devotion to them through our dance and, if they like our dancing, will they be so gracious as to watch over us and protect us for another year.”
The chanting of the holy man reaches a stunning crescendo before he moves himself from the circle. From somewhere the rhythmic pounding of clapsticks reverberate out across the land and the dancers begin to sway to the stirring rhythm.
The guy is becoming caught up in the fervour of the moment himself. This is it. He now realises beyond all doubt that his wait has not been in vain. He is about to witness the ultimate performance of rhythm and movement ever conceived by humanity.
The Elder strides to his position in the circle and, in a big booming voice, starts to sing.
“You butch yer right arm in. You butch yer right arm out. You butch yer right arm in and you shake it all about…”
Joke Poo: The Chef’s Symphony
A food critic had dedicated his life to experiencing the ultimate culinary performance. He spent decades traversing the globe, sampling obscure dishes from hidden restaurants and secret family recipes passed down through generations.
Finally, after years of relentless pursuit, he believed he had tasted every significant cuisine the world had to offer. However, a whisper reached him – a rumour of an elusive “Chef’s Symphony” performed in a remote Himalayan monastery.
He sought out a local Sherpa and, after much persuasion, the Sherpa spoke of this mythical “Chef’s Symphony.” The Sherpa asked if the critic had seen the ‘Yak Butter Fugue.’
The critic was baffled, “Yak Butter Fugue? What’s that?”
“What? You haven’t seen the Yak Butter Fugue?” The Sherpa seemed incredulous.
“No, I’ve never heard of it.”
“Oh, sahib, you are crazy. How can you say you tasted everything if you haven’t seen the Yak Butter Fugue?”
“Um… I had a yak butter tea just last week, is that what you mean?”
“No, no, not yak butter tea. Yak Butter Fugue is much more important than yak butter tea.”
“Well, how can I see this Yak Butter Fugue, then?”
“Sahib, Yak Butter Fugue is way up high in the mountains. It takes many days of travel to go see Yak Butter Fugue.”
“Look, I’ve been from the streets of Bangkok to the kitchens of Paris. Nothing will prevent me from witnessing this one last dish!”
“Okay, sahib. You hike east along the trail towards Mount Everest Base Camp. After you hike 30km, you will see a hidden path off to the right. Follow the path for 20km until you see a very old, crooked prayer wheel – the oldest wheel you ever seen. Here you need to leave your yak, as it is much too steep for riding. You climb up the slope towards the rising sun. You climb three days until you hit a glacial lake. You follow this lake to northeast. After two days you reach a place where the lake is fed by ice caves. It is much too dangerous to climb into the caves here though. You head south for a half day until you see a narrow crack in the ice. The crack is very narrow and very slippery. It takes two, maybe three days to squeeze your way though. When you are though, head northwest for four days until you reach a giant boulder – 10m high and shaped like a Buddha. From that rock, climb due west for two days and you reach a small village. Here you will see the Yak Butter Fugue.”
So, the food critic hires a team of porters and sets off. After a few hours, he finds the hidden path. The path is unbelievably steep, and he is forced to clamber and crawl, not reaching the wheel until sundown and having to set up camp.
He sets out early the next morning. His spirits are high, excited about the prospect of experiencing this legendary culinary performance. As per the directions he has been given, he reaches the lake after three days and follows it for another two to the ice caves. The freezing temperature is taking its toll, but he trudges on until he finds the crack in the ice, confident nothing can prevent him from completing his life’s dream.
The crack is every bit as treacherous as described, and at times, he nearly gives up hope of getting his portable kitchen equipment through. But after three and a half days of grueling effort, he finally makes it through and continues his long trek. When he reaches the huge boulder, four days later, his supplies are running low and his hands are bleeding. Still, he steel himself and embarks on the last leg of his journey. Two days later, he staggers into the village, where the locals feed him some stale tsampa. He begins to feel like a new man. Once recovered, he goes before the village Lama and says he has come to see the Yak Butter Fugue.
“Oh, sahib. It is very bad you come today. Yak Butter Fugue was last night. You are too late. You missed the dish!”
“Well, when do you prepare the next dish?”
“Not ‘til next year!”
“But I have come all this way! Couldn’t you just make an extra serving for me, tonight?”
“No, no, no. Yak Butter Fugue is very sacred. Only prepared once a year. If we prepare it more, the mountain spirits will get angry. You want to see Yak Butter Fugue? You come back next year.”
The critic is devastated, but he has no other option but to head back to civilization.
The following year, he heads back to the Himalayas and, determined not to miss out, sets out a week earlier. He is quite willing to spend a week with the villagers before the dish is prepared to ensure he is present to witness it. However, right from the start, things go wrong.
Unexpected blizzards have covered the path in deep snow, making progress incredibly slow and difficult, eventually forcing him to abandon his sled and trudge through the snow almost half the distance to the wheel. He reaches the lake and the ice crack without any further incident, but halfway through the crack, he is struck by severe altitude sickness, which lasts for several days, forcing him to lie forlornly in his tent. It would be suicide to continue in the face of such intense discomfort. Then, before he has even gone a kilometer from the crack, he twists his ankle badly, slowing down the rest of his journey to the boulder enormously. Eventually, having lost all sense of time, he staggers into the village at noon.
“The Yak Butter Fugue!” he gasps. “Please, don’t tell me I’m too late!”
The Lama recognizes him and says, “No, sahib, Yak Butter Fugue prepared tonight. You arrived just in time!”
Relieved beyond measure, he spends the rest of the afternoon setting up his tasting station, preparing to document this culinary experience. As dusk falls, the villagers begin to gather in the monastery courtyard, chanting and lighting prayer flags. Once darkness has settled, the monks begin to chant, and one by one, they make their way to the kitchen.
A deathly hush descends over the performers and spectators alike, as an old monk wearing an elaborate apron enters the courtyard carrying a giant bowl.
“Some sort of head chef,” the food critic thinks, and he whispers to the Lama, “What’s he doing?”
“Hush,” the Lama whispers. “You are the first outsider to ever see the most sacred of our dishes. You must remain silent. This holy chef, he asks that the spirits of the mountain watch as we demonstrate our skill and, if they are pleased with our work, they will bestow good fortune upon us for another year.”
The chanting of the monk reaches a stunning crescendo, and then he steps aside. From somewhere, the rhythmic clanging of pots and pans echoes across the mountains, and the chefs begin to move in time with the sound.
The food critic is becoming caught up in the moment himself. This is it. He now realizes that his wait has not been in vain. He is about to witness the ultimate culinary performance.
The Lama strides to his position in the courtyard and, in a big booming voice, starts to sing:
“You churn the yak butter in, you churn the yak butter out, you churn the yak butter in and you stir it all about…”
Okay, let’s break down this joke and then see if we can cook up something new.
Joke Dissection:
- Core Concept: The joke relies on a long-form shaggy dog story format, building anticipation for a grand, sacred, and unique indigenous dance. The punchline subverts this expectation with a silly, childish rhyme.
- Humor Source: The humor comes from the contrast between the epic buildup and the mundane reveal. The arduous journey, the mystical expectations, and the supposed sacredness all crash into the absurdity of a “Hokey Pokey” variant.
- Key Elements:
- The Setup: The documentarian’s quest and the Aborigine’s teasing.
- The Journey: The comically detailed, arduous trek to the village.
- The Sacredness: The emphasis on the ritual’s importance and the elder’s explanations.
- The Punchline: The “Butcher Dance” song itself.
Comedic Enrichment:
Let’s leverage some real-world facts related to the joke’s elements to create a witty observation.
Witty Observation:
“You know, that documentarian had the right idea focusing on native dances, but terrible execution. Imagine the real stories he missed! Instead of the ‘Butcher Dance,’ which sounds like the world’s most culturally insensitive gym exercise, he could have filmed the dances linked to the Aboriginal Dreamtime stories.
Did you know some of those dances actually mimic the movements of ancestral beings and are believed to re-enact creation itself? Talk about sacred! One false move in the ‘Butcher Dance’, and you have a mild wrist sprain, but mess up the ancestral being dance…who knows, maybe you accidentally erase the Nullarbor Plain from existence, no pressure.”