Comedy of Bad Manners : Has the Ethnic Joke Provoked Its Last Laugh?

In this era of sensitivity toward the self-esteem of others, the ethnic joke, or the joke derived from the idiosyncrasies of nationality, is taboo in polite society.

In a way, that is too bad. Much of our humor comes from misconceptions about--and stereotyping of--others.

It is no longer good manners, for example, to say that things are fouled up like a Chinese fire drill, since that suggests that the Chinese are incapable of holding an orderly fire drill and thus are inferior. No doubt Chinese fire drills are as orderly as American, or Swedish.

On the other hand, everyone who lives east of the Mississippi knows that Los Angelenos are laid-back, illiterate and gauche, and it is quite all right to say so.

Actually, jokes about any group of fellow Americans--provided the subjects are not identified by race, sex or sexual orientation--are permissible.

It is possible to joke about WASPs, since they have been seated in the power structure for so long that they are considered overdue for the banana peel.

It is also permissible to make jokes about people in the professions, perhaps for the same reason. Doctors, lawyers, politicians, clergymen and academics are fair game.

I have been moved to think about this by an old aphorism on the difference between heaven and hell, according to the occupations assigned in each place to various nationalities. You have probably heard it:

“In heaven: The chefs are French; the police are English; the lovers are Italian; the mechanics are German, and the whole place is run by the Swiss.

“In hell: The chefs are English; the police are German; the lovers are Swiss; the mechanics are French, and the whole place is run by the Italians.”

I think that’s funny; but it’s funny, obviously, because it reinforces the stereotypes we believe about the various peoples named.

Everyone knows that English cooking is abominable, and that French cooking is superb. Everyone knows that the Italians are great lovers. (Who does not know the story of Romeo and Juliet? Who has not quivered at those lilting duets from Italian opera?) As for the Swiss: Have you even heard of Swiss lovers? The Swiss, as we all know, are too mechanical. Their hearts are clocks.

We all know that the English police are portly, benign, lovable and somewhat inept, walking their beats without weapons and being outwitted at every turn by second-story men and international power mongers, but somehow bumbling through.

But the German police do not bumble. Mostly from our memories of World War II movies, we think of them as cold, military and efficient. They are not portly and inept, or lovable.

As for the Germans being good mechanics, have we not marveled at their cars for half a century? Was it not a miracle the way they kept their generals in Mercedes phaetons throughout the war, despite bad roads, bad gas and the Allied bombings?

But wait. Aren’t French cars marvels of engineering genius? (Although I have heard the complaint that some of them will do everything but work.) And what about the Italians with their wonderful Alfa Romeos, Fiats and Ferraris? Surely an Italian is as good a mechanic as he is a lover.

As for the notion of the Italians running the whole place, we can’t help remembering the way they screwed up in World War II. We are a little frightened by their passion. I would want to see an Italian fire drill before I put them in charge of heaven or hell.

The Swiss, of course, would run everything by the numbers. Their record of fiduciary and diplomatic stability throughout the decades of this turbulent century certainly recommends them to run heaven.

I’m not sure, though, that I’d like heaven to be that efficient. I think the American Congress ought to run heaven. If the Swiss ran it, what would we do for laughs?

Also, if I ever get to heaven, I hope the cooks are English. I have no desire to go on down through eternity eating French food. Those rich sauces will kill you. They were concocted in ancient and medieval times, when there was no refrigeration, to disguise the taste of rancid meat.

I’d much rather have beef Wellington, or a good joint, and a slab of Yorkshire pudding. After all, that was the kind of solid food that sustained the British at Waterloo.

But we we have no reason to believe that heaven and hell will be staffed and supervised by peoples of the Western nations.

We might very well find in heaven that the cooks are Chinese, the police Fijian, the lovers Indian and the mechanics Japanese. The hell of it is that both places will probably be run by the Ayatollah Khomeini.

Whichever place I go, I just hope the beer is Mexican.