Cameraman Jokes
What's the difference between a C-SPAN cameraman and a pornography cameraman?
The porno cameraman sees fewer ass holes on a daily basis.
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Did you hear the tragedy of the cameraman in the church?
It was a mass shooting.
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Why a good cameraman is a very dangerous person?
He's always shooting something!
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What do you call a Chinese cameraman?
Phil Ming
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A TV reporter and his cameraman are filming some lions in the Sahara desert,
when suddenly the wind changes and the
male picks up their scent. With a mighty roar the ferocious beast starts
bounding towards them! Shocked and crying for help the reporter turns
towards the cameraman, who had dropped the camera and was lacing up his
shoes. Dumbfounded the reporter asks him: "Wha...
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There’s plenty of Jobs in porn when you have a penis like mine
Cameraman, Lighting, sound technician even production manager.
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Who is faster? Superman or the flash?
Umm. The cameraman?...
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Twin sisters just turned 100 years old
Twin sisters just turned one hundred
years old in St. Luke's Nursing Home and the editor of the Cambridge
rag, "The Cambridge Distorter," told a photographer to get over there
and take the pictures of these 100 year old twin bitteys.
One of the twins was hard of hearing and the other could hear quite well.
The photographer asked them to sit on the sofa and the deaf one said to her twin, "WHAT DID HE SAY?"
He said, "WE GOTTA SIT OVER THERE ON THE SOFA!" said the other.
"Now get a little closer together," said the cameraman.
Again, "WHAT DID HE SAY?"
"HE SAYS SQUEEZE TOGETHER A LITTLE." So they wiggled up close to each other.
"Just hold on for a bit longer, I've got to focus a little," said the photographer.
Yet again, "WHAT DID HE SAY?"
"HE SAYS HE'S GONNA FOCUS!"
With a big grin the deaf twin shouted out, "OH MY GOD - BOTH OF US?"
One of the twins was hard of hearing and the other could hear quite well.
The photographer asked them to sit on the sofa and the deaf one said to her twin, "WHAT DID HE SAY?"
He said, "WE GOTTA SIT OVER THERE ON THE SOFA!" said the other.
"Now get a little closer together," said the cameraman.
Again, "WHAT DID HE SAY?"
"HE SAYS SQUEEZE TOGETHER A LITTLE." So they wiggled up close to each other.
"Just hold on for a bit longer, I've got to focus a little," said the photographer.
Yet again, "WHAT DID HE SAY?"
"HE SAYS HE'S GONNA FOCUS!"
With a big grin the deaf twin shouted out, "OH MY GOD - BOTH OF US?"
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An anthropologist is completing his lifelong study of world dance...
And he's celebrating. Celebrating his tail off.
See, he'd spent the last 25 years cataloging every single dance performed by every group in the world. Polish Bogarodzicas. Sioux Buckskin dances to Seminole Green Corn dances. Inuit dances to the whales, Ghanaian Kpanlongo, Finnish step-dance. All of it. And he's found himself in Australia, recording the last one of all. A Wungubal in the north, performed by a small group of Aborigines. He taped it. He wrote it down. He was finally finished.
He's had a few beers to celebrate this, and the bartender asks what he's celebrating. The professor tells him, and also decides to buy the bar a round.
A quiet man in a black suit and a bowler hat comes up to the bar, puts his hand on the anthropologist's shoulder, and whispers into his ear...
"You seen the *Butcher* dance yet, mate?"
The professor admits he hasn't. But since he's seen every dance, he's sure he's taped it somewhere. The gentleman in the hat says, "Noooooo, my friend. If you've seen it, you would remember it. It's only performed by this one tribe. Deep, deep, deep in the bush. Done by the Barrabarra tribe."
"But the Barrabarra have been extinct for half a century!"
"No, mate. There's 30 of them left. And they're the last ones to do the Butcher dance."
The professor puts down his beer, runs to the car to get his film crew, and they ask the man for directions. He just NEEDS to see the Butcher dance. The directions are long and winding, and they tend to go on geological features instead of any compass readings. Pages and pages of directions.
"Pass a stone shaped like a dead woman's hand. Climb into the valley cut by the knife of the gods. Walk 20 miles by the light of the brightest star..." etc.
They begin their trek. Days pass.
The better part of their sound equipment falls and shatters while they're climbing a gorge. After two weeks, he loses his first cameraman. Taipan bit him, and they were too far out to get any antidote. This utter tragedy only inflames the professor's desire, the price he must pay to see the mysterious Butcher dance. Their nights are freezing, their days are burned by the sun. And they finally come upon a fire within a circle of walled stone, surrounded by 30 shadowy figures.
The head of the tribe approaches, a gleam in his eye. His speech is thick and hypnotizing, an accent never heard on this earth.
"Youuuu....want to seeeee....the *Butcher dance*, hey?"
The professor nods.
"We do the Butcher dance. We did it last night."
They start to set up the camera. The chief says, "but. We only do it. Once. Per. Year."
A hush.
I mean, the professor knows not to argue. He knows he shouldn't make a scene. He's done this thousands of times. But he's never lost a friend, he's never come this far, he's never been this sunburned. With heavy heart, he stalks away in silence.
He gets a flight home. He sees his wife and children. He gets on with his life.
Months pass, but the dreams don't stop. He knows he will live a life of hollowness, a life of filling an unending hole, unless he can see this dance.
Against the advice of every friend he's ever had, he books a flight to Australia the next year. He even gets some of his old crew to come along. They're excited, they're ready, there's the spirit in the air of "well, we've come this far!"
And the excitement fades when they begin their trek.
It's every bit as hard as last time. In fact, due to a sudden sandstorm, they are delayed a full day. There's the chance that they'll miss it, that the dance won't be performed for another year.
Covered in bites and sand and blood, they stagger into the circle of walled stone. There are the 30 figures. There is the fire. A drum is pounding, pounding up to the stars. The chief sees the professor and grins.
"We doing it tonight. I thought I'd see you. Prepare....for the *Butcher dance.*"
The cameras are set up.
The sound is rolling.
The drums reach a monumental crescendo, mingling with their fevered heartbeats.
The chief pulls out a massive machete. He grabs a chicken that had been running around and he whocks off its head. He takes the still-moving body and slides the neck up his right arm. Bright crimson blood shines in the fire light. He does it on his other arm. He does it on his forehead. The drums fall silent.
The chief begins to sing. He sings...
..."Yooooooooou...."
...
..."Yooooooooou...."
...
"You *Butcher* right hand in. You *Butcher* right hand out...you *Butcher* right^handin^andyoushakeit^allabout...
See, he'd spent the last 25 years cataloging every single dance performed by every group in the world. Polish Bogarodzicas. Sioux Buckskin dances to Seminole Green Corn dances. Inuit dances to the whales, Ghanaian Kpanlongo, Finnish step-dance. All of it. And he's found himself in Australia, recording the last one of all. A Wungubal in the north, performed by a small group of Aborigines. He taped it. He wrote it down. He was finally finished.
He's had a few beers to celebrate this, and the bartender asks what he's celebrating. The professor tells him, and also decides to buy the bar a round.
A quiet man in a black suit and a bowler hat comes up to the bar, puts his hand on the anthropologist's shoulder, and whispers into his ear...
"You seen the *Butcher* dance yet, mate?"
The professor admits he hasn't. But since he's seen every dance, he's sure he's taped it somewhere. The gentleman in the hat says, "Noooooo, my friend. If you've seen it, you would remember it. It's only performed by this one tribe. Deep, deep, deep in the bush. Done by the Barrabarra tribe."
"But the Barrabarra have been extinct for half a century!"
"No, mate. There's 30 of them left. And they're the last ones to do the Butcher dance."
The professor puts down his beer, runs to the car to get his film crew, and they ask the man for directions. He just NEEDS to see the Butcher dance. The directions are long and winding, and they tend to go on geological features instead of any compass readings. Pages and pages of directions.
"Pass a stone shaped like a dead woman's hand. Climb into the valley cut by the knife of the gods. Walk 20 miles by the light of the brightest star..." etc.
They begin their trek. Days pass.
The better part of their sound equipment falls and shatters while they're climbing a gorge. After two weeks, he loses his first cameraman. Taipan bit him, and they were too far out to get any antidote. This utter tragedy only inflames the professor's desire, the price he must pay to see the mysterious Butcher dance. Their nights are freezing, their days are burned by the sun. And they finally come upon a fire within a circle of walled stone, surrounded by 30 shadowy figures.
The head of the tribe approaches, a gleam in his eye. His speech is thick and hypnotizing, an accent never heard on this earth.
"Youuuu....want to seeeee....the *Butcher dance*, hey?"
The professor nods.
"We do the Butcher dance. We did it last night."
They start to set up the camera. The chief says, "but. We only do it. Once. Per. Year."
A hush.
I mean, the professor knows not to argue. He knows he shouldn't make a scene. He's done this thousands of times. But he's never lost a friend, he's never come this far, he's never been this sunburned. With heavy heart, he stalks away in silence.
He gets a flight home. He sees his wife and children. He gets on with his life.
Months pass, but the dreams don't stop. He knows he will live a life of hollowness, a life of filling an unending hole, unless he can see this dance.
Against the advice of every friend he's ever had, he books a flight to Australia the next year. He even gets some of his old crew to come along. They're excited, they're ready, there's the spirit in the air of "well, we've come this far!"
And the excitement fades when they begin their trek.
It's every bit as hard as last time. In fact, due to a sudden sandstorm, they are delayed a full day. There's the chance that they'll miss it, that the dance won't be performed for another year.
Covered in bites and sand and blood, they stagger into the circle of walled stone. There are the 30 figures. There is the fire. A drum is pounding, pounding up to the stars. The chief sees the professor and grins.
"We doing it tonight. I thought I'd see you. Prepare....for the *Butcher dance.*"
The cameras are set up.
The sound is rolling.
The drums reach a monumental crescendo, mingling with their fevered heartbeats.
The chief pulls out a massive machete. He grabs a chicken that had been running around and he whocks off its head. He takes the still-moving body and slides the neck up his right arm. Bright crimson blood shines in the fire light. He does it on his other arm. He does it on his forehead. The drums fall silent.
The chief begins to sing. He sings...
..."Yooooooooou...."
...
..."Yooooooooou...."
...
"You *Butcher* right hand in. You *Butcher* right hand out...you *Butcher* right^handin^andyoushakeit^allabout...
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