On Facebook, the meeting place of truly great minds, someone greatly brave posted the blonde joke about the blonde driver who's stopped by the blonde cop, mistakenly produces her pocket mirror when asked for I.D., and the cop, looking at it, says, "Sorry, didn't know you were a cop, you can go."
As a sometime blonde, painful memory pulled another shattering blonde-shamer from the blonde-blighting past. I reproduce it below. Following that, the translation I once attempted for mystified friends in Italy, who didn't know blondes were meant to be looked down upon. And, finally, a column I wrote, back in the dark early days of blondism, to rally the sisters and give them hope.
1.The blind blondist
A blind man enters a Ladies’ Bar by mistake. He finds his way to a barstool and orders a drink. After sitting there for a while, he yells to the bartender, "Hey, you wanna hear a blonde joke?"
The bar immediately falls absolutely quiet. In a very deep, husky voice, the woman next to him says, "Before you tell that joke, sir, I think it just fair, given that you are blind, that you should know five things:
The bartender is a blonde.
The bouncer is a blonde.
I'm a 6-foot, 180-pound blonde with a black belt in karate.
The woman sitting next to me is blonde and is a professional weightlifter.
The lady to your right is a blonde and is a champion wrestler.
"Now think about it seriously, Mister. Do you still wanna tell that joke?"
The blind man thinks for a second, shakes his head, and says: "Nah...not if I'm gonna have to repeat it five times!"
2.Il cieco contro-bionda
Un cieco, per sbaglio, entra nel bar che è solo per le donne. Si trova un sgabello, chiede da bere. Dopo qualche minute grid'al barrista: "Aho, vuoi sentir' una barzeletta su delle bionde?" Subito c'è silenzio. Parlando nel voce bassa e rauca, la donna gli accanto dice: "Senti, signore, prima di dircela, Lei, essendo cieco, deve sapere cinque cose:
La barrista è una bionda.
Il buttafuori è una bionda.
Io sono una bionda, e ho 2+ metri e 81 chili, e sono black-belt di karate.
La donna accanto di me è una bionda e fa il sollevamento pesi come mestiere.
La signora alla destra di Lei è una bionda e anche lottatrice campione.
“Quindi deve ripensarsi sul serio, signore. Ha sempre voglia di raccontarci questa barzeletta?"
Il cieco ci pensa un attimo, poi si scossa la testa; dice: "Boh, no...se dovrei spiegarvela cinque volte!"
3. The historic column
Blondism: You never know how it feels to be a victim until you become one
Canada's national paper, that Toronto one that always prints one letter to the editor from Kamloops, has made it official. Who is the newest target group for oppressors, bigots, and your general all- around down-putters?
Uh-huh. And you thought we were having such fun.
One of their columnists had it confirmed when he found Patrick, his haircutter, suggesting they swap blonde jokes.
This prompted an in-depth unflinching nationwide examination of the whole ugly phenomenon. There was blondism in Vancouver, there was blondism right here at home. "Of course," the columnist warned, "there are people who even imagine that the bullish rise of blonde-bashing is just for fun." Au contraire: Since "blondes are a clearly visible minority from Northern European stock," obviously "the jokes are racist."
Blondophobia. All we could breathe to ourselves, ever so quietly, was: Thank heaven. It's out in the open.
Now we could finally come out of the closet, the one where we store our Clairol Whisper Beige and White Minx; and shout it from the rooftops, every golden hair gleaming triumphantly in the cleansing rising sun:
Sing it out loud. We're blonde and we're proud!
Because being blonde has been hell. Sheer hell.
The jokes, the jibes, that followed you all your life.
Why did the blonde tiptoe past the medicine chest? - She didn't want to wake the sleeping pills.
The coarse laughter that seared worse than any acid.
What does a blonde make best for dinner? - Reservations.
The times you stopped short in the street, wondering how on earth a total stranger knew your name:
We were young, we were naive, we didn't know we were different, or why they should hate us so. We would scuttle home, drop our books and creep onto Mama's ample lap. Ma. Ma? Am I . . . blonde?
Shesh, gal. Mama would shift uneasily, since by that time we were going on 31, and quite a lapful. Don't be daft.
She would take out the Clairol bills, show them to us again and again. We're not blonde, chile. Neither you, nor me. Don't pay them folks any mind.
But to folks who wanted to hate, it didn't make any difference where the blondeness came from. They saw blonde and they bubbled bile.
Why did the blonde throw the clock out the window? She wanted to see time fly.
Later, there would be employment opportunities missed. Being passed over for promotion by some Mensa member whose hair just happened to be the shade of boiled mouse.
It couldn't happen in your shop, you say? Just look around you. How many blondes do you see in top management? At The Star? There is one, just one.
Are you telling me that with the proportionate statistical incidence of blondes they could find only a single one worthy of wearing the mantle of upper management?
Maybe, just maybe now that it's being called by its rightful, ugly name we can fight blondism like the blight it is. Demand BAA (Blonde Affirmative Action), and EOB: insist on Equal Opportunity for Blondes, that employers be forced not to discriminate on the basis of race, sex, or hair colour.
And start turning the murderous blondophobic jokes around:
What do you call a 7'6" blonde wearing cleats and packing an AK- 47? - Sir.
And: Do you know how blondes get pregnant? - No, how? - And you call them dumb?