The Moscow Times
Friday, July 2, 2004. Page 8.

Before VCRs, There Was Armenian Radio

By Michele A. Berdy
Àðìÿíñêîå ðàäèî ñïðàøèàþò: A question for Armenian radio (the opening line
in a series of Soviet-era jokes).

A guy walks into a bar … .” As soon as Americans hear these words, they get
ready for a laugh (or at least a joke). For Russians, getting ready to hear
or tell a joke is one of the greatest pleasures of the culture. In the bad
old days, before VCRs, multiplex cinemas, fitness clubs and other
recreational diversions, an entertaining evening was spent with friends
sitting in the kitchen, talking about life, and, if there was a good
joke-teller (ðàññêàç÷èê) in the crowd, laughing to the point of tears over
the latest joke (àíåêäîò).

Jokes are miserable (and sometimes impossible) to translate, and can be hard
even to understand. Since there’s nothing worse than sitting with a blank
expression while your friends roar with laughter, here’s a short guide to
some of the standard personages that populate Russian jokes.

Many Russian jokes are based on recognizable ethnic or religious
stereotypes: the rich Georgian (of Soviet times, now replaced by the New
Russian), the slow-witted Estonian (ãîðÿ÷èé ýñòîíñêèé ïàðåíü — hot-blooded
Estonian), the greedy and slovenly Ukrainian. In one series, a Frenchman, an
American, a German and a Russian (or sometimes a Jew, Englishman or
Ukrainian) find themselves in some situation where their various national
characteristics come to light.

In the Russian tradition, ×óê÷à (Chukcha, from the Far East region of
Chukotka) is equivalent to the “dumb Pollack” — definitely not politically
correct in any language. Speaking in broken Russian, he finds himself in
Moscow, far from the taiga, puzzled by modern civilization. In one joke, he
is riding a tram. îäèòåëü: Ñëåäóþùàÿ îñòàíîêà — 8-ãî Ìàðòà. ×óê÷à: À
ðàíüøå íèêàê íåëüçÿ? (Conductor: Next stop — 8th of March. Chukcha: Is
there no way we can stop any earlier?)

Jokes about the íîûé ðóññêèé (the New Russian) have petered out (probably
because they’re just not funny anymore), but during the peak period of New
Russian jokes in the ’90s, it seemed a week didn’t go by without a new
variation. New Russians are dim-witted, dedicated to shows of affluence, and
eager to spend as much money as they can. Äà íîûõ ðóññêèõ ñòðå÷àþòñÿ.
Îäèí ïîêàçûàåò äðóãîìó íîûé ãàëñòóê. “Òîëüêî ÷òî êóïèë çà $3,000.” “Äóðàê!
Ìîæíî áûëî êóïèòü çà óãëîì çà $4,000!” (Two New Russians meet. One shows the
other his new tie. “I bought it for $3,000.” “You idiot! You could have
bought it around the corner for $4,000!”)

In the late ’90s, there were also a series of gruesome jokes connected with
contract killings. Äà êèëëåðà ñèäÿò ïîäúåçäå, æäóò áèçíåñìåíà. Æäóò ÷àñ,
äà, òðè … äðóã îäèí ãîîðèò, “Ñëóøàé, ÿ íà÷èíàþ îëíîàòüñÿ. Íå
ñëó÷èëîñü ëè ÷òî-íèáóäü?” (Two hit men are waiting in an apartment building
entryway for a businessman. They wait an hour, two hours, three. Finally one
says to the other, “Hey, I’m getting worried. Do you think something
happened to him?”)

My favorite series of the Soviet period were “questions to Armenian Radio.”
These appeared in the 1960s, apparently the continuation of àðìÿíñêèå
çàãàäêè (literally “Armenian riddles,” something like knock-knock jokes).
There were many themes (including those playing on the competitive relations
between Georgians and Armenians), but the most famous are the anti-Soviet
jokes. Àðìÿíñêîå ðàäèî ñïðàøèàþò: Ìîæíî ëè ïîñòðîèòü êîììóíèçì Àðìåíèè?
Ìîæíî, íî ëó÷øå ñíà÷àëà Ãðóçèè. (A question for Armenian radio: Can
communism be built in Armenia? Yes, but it would be better to do it in
Georgia first.) Àðìÿíñêîå ðàäèî ñïðàøèàþò: Ìîæíî ëè ïîñòðîèòü êîììóíèçì?
Äà, ìîæíî — íî ûæèòü ïðè í¸ì — íåëüçÿ. (A question for Armenian radio:
Can communism be built? Yes, it can — but no one can survive it.) Or the
all-time classic: Êàêîé ñàìûé êîðîòêèé àíåêäîò? Îòåò: Êîììóíèçì. (What’s
the shortest joke? Answer: Communism.)

In the bad old days, that always got a laugh.

Michele A. Berdy is a Moscow-based translator.