The Post Office
As my heart longingly dreams nostalgic dreams of the Mediterranean, I thought I would share an Algerian joke from my older homeboy Arezki, a former fisherman from Tigzirt:
A drunk man is staggering about the port in the early evening. The sun has just set, it’s not completely dark yet, but the breeze is definitely cooler. The man leans against a pole, lights up a cigarette and starts contemplating the possible outcomes of his current situation. He can’t go back to his house because the neighbors are still around the block and he’s reeking of alcohol. He can’t hit up a cabaret because it’s too early for that. And he sure as hell doesn’t wanna go back to that stinking bar he just came out of.
Along comes an older man, very pious and clean in his dress and possibly his conscience. Let’s call him the Grandfather. The Grandfather politely asks the drunk citizen for directions.
“My dear boy, wouldn’t you know the way to the post office? I’m trying to get there before it closes.”
The drunk explains to the old man how to find his post office, expelling noxious vapors from his mouth in the process. The Grandfather, stumbling upon this lost soul, thinks it his duty to give some heartfelt advice:
“My son, you are young and handsome. Why do you insist on ruining yourself with alcohol? You would be much happier if you stopped drinking and started praying. If you make an effort to lead a healthier and cleaner life, God will surely reward you with Paradise.”
To which the drunk replies:
“I see. So, how come you know the way of God, but not the way to the post office?”