This was passed on to me by my intrepid father-in-law: A woman wearing a tank-top sits down at a bar and raises her hand to gain the bartender's attention, exposing a tuft of underarm hair that had not seen a razor in months. The bartender, noticing the sickened look on his customer's faces yet not wishing to insult the woman, tells her, "Ma'am, my name is Charlie, and if you need a another drink, just say 'Hey Charlie,' to get my attention." "Okay," says the woman. A few minutes later, after the woman emptied her glass, she raises her hand again to get Charlie's attention. Patrons begin to leave the bar, disgusted at the sight of her armpit foliage, and Charlie is losing patience with her. "Ma'am, I told you to call my name if you needed anything," he tells the woman. "Hey Charlie, put her drink on my tab," a drunk at the other end of the bar says. "I just love the ballet." "Ballet?" Charlie asks. "What in the world do you mean?" "Any woman who can lift her leg that high has got to be a ballerina," the drunk replies.
(From the "Rest" of RHF)