In the spring of 2026, a joke circulated in German digital circles: a nun enters a taxi, a kiss is exchanged under dubious pretenses, and confessions ensue—he is married and Jewish, she is not a nun but en route to a costume party. The punchline, delivered with the precision of a well-aged anecdote, seemed too elegant to be new. This suspicion, born of literary instinct and sharpened by years of grazing in obscure libraries, led to an investigation that unearthed a comic lineage stretching from meme culture to hieroglyphs.
The text of the German version of the joke, newly arrived on the shores of Teutonic humour, is as follows:
Eine Nonne hält ein Taxi an, setzt sich nach hinten und gibt ihr Fahrziel an. Nach ein paar Minuten bemerkt sie daß der gutaussehende Fahrer sie ununterbrochen anstarrt. Schließlich fragt sie: „Mein Kind, warum starren Sie mich so an?“ Er zögert und sagt: „Ich … ich hätte da eine Frage, aber ich möchte Sie nicht beleidigen.“ Sie lächelt freundlich und antwortet: „Mein Sohn, ich bin schon lange Nonne. Ich habe schon so ziemlich alles gehört. Ich verspreche dir, nichts, was du sagst, wird mich beleidigen.“ Er sagt: „Na gut … ich hatte schon immer die Fantasie, von einer Nonne geküsst zu werden.“ Sie denkt nach und sagt: „Nun ja … mal sehen, was wir machen können. Bist Du verheiratet?“ „Nein!“, sagt er aufgeregt. „Und bist katholisch?“ „Absolut!“ Sie nickt. „Dann fahre dort in diese Gasse.“ Er tut es, und sie gibt ihm einen so leidenschaftlichen Kuss der hätte Glas schmelzen lassen können. Als sie weiterfahren, fängt der Taxifahrer an zu weinen. Die Nonne fragt sanft: „Mein liebes Kind, warum weinst du?“ Er schnieft und sagt: „Verzeiht mir, Schwester … ich habe gesündigt. Ich habe gelogen. Ich bin verheiratet … und ich bin Jude.“ Die Nonne lächelt und sagt: „Schon gut. Ich heiße Erwin und bin auf dem Weg zu einer Faschings-Party.“
The usual rendition of this joke in English has long been a favourite in pub banter and late-night radio, and typically takes the following form:
A nun gets into an Uber. The driver keeps staring at her in the mirror.
Eventually she says, “My child, is something wrong?”
He blushes. “I’ve always had this fantasy of being kissed by a nun.”
She thinks for a moment. “Are you married?”
“No.”
“And Catholic?”
“Yes!”
She nods. “Turn into that side street.”
He does, and she kisses him like she’s trying to reset his soul.
A minute later he starts crying. She asks, “Why are you crying, my child?”
He sobs, “I lied. I’m married… and I’m Jewish!”
She pats his arm. “It’s alright. I’m Kevin, and I’m on my way to a costume party.”
This well-known joke was recently elevated by the discovery of a Shakespearean sonnet titled The Nunne Vnmask’d. Complete with Folio-style spelling and a title page, the sonnet reveals the cabman’s confession—“Forgiue! I’m wed—and Jewiſh!”—and the nun’s retort: “I’m Bob, and bound vnto a coſtum’d Parlor.” The structure is unmistakably Shakespearean: erotic misrecognition, religious disguise, and comic reversal. Yet, as with so many of the Bard’s works, the sonnet appears to be a synthesis rather than an origin.
Two medieval antecedents emerge with startling clarity. Chaucer’s The Tale of þe Nunne and þe Cabbeman presents the jest in Middle English, complete with marginalia and illuminated initials.
Petrarch’s La Falsa Monaca, et l’Auriga Ingannato offers a Tuscan sonnet of emotional intensity, where the kiss is “furor, d’ardore acceso” and the confession “Son giudeo, e già sposo!” is met with “Son Berto, e vado a una mascherata.” Shakespeare, ever the magpie, seems to have fused Chaucer’s earthy humour with Petrarch’s lyrical fire.
Two manuscript versions of the Petrarchian sonnet version exist, delightfully illustrated. The fact that the steering wheel of the cab is made from wood attests to the historical authenticity of the illustration.
A Central European Anabasis of the jest
In Budapest, the tale appears in a 19th-century Hungarian tome discovered in the Metropolitan Erwin Library. The poem, written in Gothic script and illustrated with a line drawing of a moonlit carriage, features the cabman’s lament—“zsidó vagyok… s férj”—and the nun’s revelation: “Nem vagyok Borbála: Béla böck vagyok!” The Hungarian version, rich in local idiom and literary charm, demonstrates the joke’s adaptability across languages and centuries.
This version must have been circulated around the Austro-Hungarian Empire although its Viennese rendition, if any, was later lost as the joke is guaranteed brand new in Germany today. A Czech iteration has been discovered, attributed to Jaroslav Hašek as an unpublished part of the Švejk epos which did not make the final cut, although finely illustrated apparently by Josef Lada, brings the tale into the realm of twentieth century Central European satire. In this version, Švejk recounts the story to a bewildered officer, complete with tangents about schnitzel theft and ecclesiastical geese. The punchline—“Já nejsem žádná sestra! Já jsem Bob a jdu na maškarní!”—lands with the cheerful absurdity of a Prague pub anecdote.
The original in Czech is as follows:
Jak to Švejk vyprávěl panu nadporučíkovi
„Poslušně hlásím, pane nadporučíku,“ začal Švejk, když mu donesli pivo, „že taková věc se může stát každému slušnému člověku, co veze jeptišku v taxíku. Nebo aspoň vypadá jako jeptiška. V dnešní době se člověk nemůže spolehnout ani na to, že farář je farář a pes je pes.“
Nadporučík Lukáš si povzdechl. Švejk pokračoval.
„Tak ten taxikář, dobrák od kosti, koukne do zrcátka a vidí tam tu sestru v černým. A hned ho napadne, že by si splnil takový malý, nevinný přáníčko. A tak povídá: ‚Sestro, já bych vás jednou chtěl políbit.‘ A ona na to: ‚Jste ženatý?‘ A on, jak už to u chlapů bývá, hned že ne, že ani náhodou. A jestli je katolík, to taky odkejval, protože co by člověk pro polibek neudělal.“
Švejk se napil a pokračoval s vážností profesora teologie.
„Tak mu řekla, ať zahne do postranní uličky. A tam mu dala takovej políbenec, že by se z toho i svatej Václav rozbrečel. A on se taky rozbrečel. A povídá: ‚Já vám lhal! Já jsem ženatej! A navíc Žid!‘“
Nadporučík se chytil za hlavu.
„A ta jeptiška,“ pokračoval Švejk, „se začne smát a povídá: ‚Neblbněte, člověče. Já nejsem žádná sestra. Já jsem Bob a jdu na maškarní.‘“
Chvíli bylo ticho.
„A to je, pane nadporučíku,“ dodal Švejk, „přesně ten typ případu, kterej se pak dostane do vojenský zprávy jako ‚nepředvídatelná událost v terénu‘. A kdyby to četl pan feldkurát Katz, tak by řekl, že je to důkaz, že Pánbůh má smysl pro humor.“
A rough English translation reads:
How Švejk Told It to the Lieutenant
“Humbly report, sir,” began Švejk as they brought him his beer, “that a thing like this can happen to any decent fellow who ends up driving a nun in a taxi. Or at least someone who looks like a nun. These days you can’t rely on anything—priests aren’t always priests, and a dog isn’t always a dog.”
Lieutenant Lukáš sighed. Švejk continued.
“So this taxi driver, a good soul through and through, glances in the mirror and sees this sister in black. And right away it occurs to him that he might fulfil a small, innocent little wish. So he says: ‘Sister, I’ve always wanted to kiss a nun.’ And she asks him, ‘Are you married?’ And he—like men always do—immediately says no, not at all, not in the slightest. And when she asks if he’s Catholic, he nods to that too, because what wouldn’t a man do for a kiss.”
Švejk took a sip and went on with the solemnity of a theology professor.
“So she tells him to turn into a side alley. And there she gives him such a kiss that even Saint Wenceslas would have burst into tears. And then he himself burst into tears. And he says: ‘I lied to you! I’m married! And what’s more—I’m Jewish!’”
The lieutenant grabbed his head.
“And the nun,” Švejk continued, “starts laughing and says: ‘Don’t be silly, man. I’m no sister. I’m Bob, and I’m on my way to a costume party.’”
There was a moment of silence.
“And that, sir,” Švejk concluded, “is exactly the sort of case that ends up in a military report as an ‘unforeseeable incident in the field.’ And if Father Katz read it, he’d say it was proof that the Lord God has a sense of humour.”
Tracing the Trail into Antiquity … and Beyond
Yet the trail does not end in medieval Europe with Petrarch and Chaucer. As is often the case with these poets, the initial source is one from the classical era. A papyrus attributed to Aeschylus, Ἡ Παρθένη Ψεύστρια, presents the tale in tragic diction: night, fear, eros as madness, and the comic masks of fate.
The full text has been discovered by forensic scholarship and the comparison of several papyri, to red:
Ζεῦ, σκοτία νύξ, ἁμαρτίας φοβέρα,
ὁ νομιζὼν ξένης κλισιάδος λῆμα.
Ἔρως μανίας, φρενῶν κλονισθεῖσα,
ὄμμα μελαίνας ἐς κυάνιον ἤλασεν·
δάκρυ δ᾽ ἔθηκε, πυρὸς ὥστε σταγόνα.
ὁ δ᾽ ἀνὴρ ἔλεξεν· «Ῥαδιμάς γάρ εἰμι,
καὶ τεκνώσας λαὸς Ἰσραὴλ μένω.»
ἡ δὲ καλχαῖσα μειδιάσασ᾽ ἔφη·
«ὄλβιε γελῷε, μὴ τρέμου·
Βόβος γ᾽ ἐγώ, καὶ πρὸς κῶμον βαίνω
παιγνίων ἕνεκ᾽ ἐσθῆτος ἀπάτης.»
Notes on the Greek
-
Ζεῦ, σκοτία νύξ — a very Aeschylean invocation, reminiscent of Agamemnon’s cosmic openings.
-
κλισιάδος λῆμα — “the will of the one in the carriage,” using Homeric klisiás repurposed for our cabman.
-
ὄμμα μελαίνας ἐς κυάνιον ἤλασεν — “his dark eye turned to blue,” a poetic rendering of the cabman’s emotional collapse.
-
Ῥαδιμάς — a playful pseudo‑Semitic name formed like Radamanthys, but with a wink.
-
Βόβος — our beloved Bob, Hellenised.
-
πρὸς κῶμον βαίνω — “I go to a revel,” i.e., a costume party, but in proper tragic diction.
-
ἐσθῆτος ἀπάτης — “garb of deception,” a perfect tragic euphemism for a nun’s costume.
Beyond Europe
Even more astonishing is a Japanese manuscript: a series of haiku in flowing grass script, accompanied by an ukiyo-e-style illustration of a rickshaw driver and a nun beneath cherry blossoms. The final haiku—“Do not laugh / I am a monk / At a costume feast”—compresses the entire narrative into seventeen syllables of Zen mischief.
A cycle of four Edo period haikus presents the tale as follows:
1. 黒衣の影 誓いは風に乗り 夜道ひとり
Kuroi no kage / Chikai wa kaze ni nori / Yomichi hitori
(A shadow in black / vows ride upon the night wind / alone on the path)
2. 揺れる車 唇の火の雨 涙の月
Yureru kuruma / Kuchibiru no hi no ame / Namida no tsuki
(Swaying carriage / lips rain fire / moon of tears)
3. 「妻あり、ユダヤ」 男の声震え 星沈みぬ
“Tsuma ari, Yudaya” / Otoko no koe furue / Hoshi shizuminu
(“I have a wife, and am Jew” / his voice trembles / stars sink low)
4. 笑う修道 「私は僧なりき 仮装の宴」
Warau shūdō / Watashi wa sō nariki / Kasō no utage
(Laughing nun replies / “I am but a monk disguised / to a masquerade”)
The Tale Known as Indaba KaBob NoMshayeli Wetekisi
It is a well‑established fact in the history of southern African linguistics that the Zulu people did not traditionally employ a written script of their own. This changed decisively in the mid‑19th century, when Norbertus Wendelinus (Norbert) Gerlach, a Norwegian missionary, working in collaboration with Bishop John William Colenso, introduced a Latin‑based orthography for isiZulu in the 1850s and 1860s. Their efforts, initially intended for Biblical translation and catechetical instruction, had the unintended consequence of opening the floodgates of Zulu oral tradition to written preservation.
Once the Zulu were furnished with this new alphabetic technology, they began—slowly at first, and then with remarkable enthusiasm—to commit to paper those narratives that had circulated for generations around homestead fires, in cattle enclosures, and along the well‑worn paths of the uMkhomazi valley. Among the earliest of these written records is a tale of such antiquity, such cultural weight, that its appearance in written form was greeted by elders with the solemn nod reserved for ancestral truths.
This story, known among the isiZulu as one of the oldest and most revered in their cultural memory, is said to have been told “kusukela kudala kakhulu”—since time immemorial. It was whispered by hunters beneath the stars, recited by grandmothers stirring porridge at dawn, and laughed over by young warriors polishing their assegai. And when the new Latin letters finally allowed it to be fixed upon the page, the tale emerged in a form both familiar and startlingly fresh.
It is the story now known to scholars as Indaba KaBob NoMshayeli Wetekisi—The Tale of Bob and the Taxi Driver—a narrative whose themes of disguise, confession, and comic revelation appear to transcend geography, language, and epoch. That such a tale should be counted among the foundational myths of the Zulu people is a testament not only to its narrative resilience but also to the universal human delight in stories where identity slips, masks fall, and laughter restores the balance of the world.
The IsiZulu language version recorded in 1858 but millennia older in fact is as follows:
Indaba KaBob NoMshayeli Wetekisi
(The Tale of Bob and the Taxi Driver)
Kuthiwa ngelinye ilanga, umshayeli wetekisi wabona into angakaze ayibone: kuyangena usisi ogqoke izingubo zesonto, emnyama emhlophe, ethule njengomthandazo.
Umshayeli wathi enhliziyweni yakhe: “Hawu, ngabe ngingacela okuncane nje, okungelona icala?”
Wabheka emuva wathi: “Usisi, bengihlala ngifisa ukukwanga owesifazane ongumuntu kaNkulunkulu.”
Lowo “sisi” wambuza: “Ushadile na?” Umshayeli wathi: “Cha, angishadile.” “UyiKatolika na?” Wathi: “Yebo, ngiyakholelwa.”
Bathi sebefikile emgwaqweni ongaboni muntu, lowo “sisi” wamanga umshayeli ngendlela eyenza izinyembezi ziqhamuke emehlweni akhe njengemvula yasehlobo.
Wathi esehogela: “Ngiyaxolisa! Ngikufihlile iqiniso. Ngishadile… futhi ngingumJuda!”
Lowo “sisi” wahleka wathi: “Hhayi bo, ungakhathazeki. Angisiye usisi mina. NginguBob — futhi ngiya emcimbini wamagqokisamoshayo!”
The English Rendition, believed to have been made by Bishop John William Colenso, is as follows:
It is said that on one day, the driver of a taxi saw something he had never seen: there enters a sister (nun) wearing church clothes, black and white, quiet like a prayer.
The driver said in his heart: “Wow, could I perhaps ask for something small, something that is not a crime?”
He looked back and said: “Sister, I have always wished to kiss a woman who is a person of God.”
That “sister” asked him: “Are you married?” The driver said: “No, I am not married.” “Are you a Catholic?” He said: “Yes, I believe.”
They say when they had arrived at a road where no person could be seen, that “sister” kissed the driver in a way that made tears appear in his eyes like summer rain.
He said while sobbing: “I am sorry! I have hidden the truth from you. I am married… and also I am a Jew!”
That “sister” laughed and said: “Oh no, do not worry. I am not a sister. I am Bob — and I am going to a costume party!”
However, it is in an Egyptian papyrus that the historical trail finally dies down. Rendered in hieroglyphs, it depicts a chariot scene with a veiled figure and a scribe observing. The symbols—ankh, owl, papyrus—suggest themes of life, wisdom, and disguise. The caption, if one were to invent it, might read: “He who kisses the veiled one learns his own name anew.” This is also a contender for the title of oldest Jewish joke in the world.
Conclusion
What seemed to be at the outset a most modern joke, reveals itself as a travelling story spanning centuries, even millennia, and continents, and appears to be as old as humanity itself: a comic engine built from three simple cogs—false sanctity, erotic negotiation, and double unmasking. Each culture dresses the tale in its own garb: nun’s habit, monk’s robe, rickshaw, cab, chariot. The joke behaves like its characters: forever in disguise, forever being unmasked, and forever ready to don a new costume in the next language, the next city, the next age.
The illustrations—Shakespearean Folio, Chaucerian and Petrarchan manuscripts, Hungarian tome, Czech cartoon, Aeschylean papyrus, Japanese scroll, and Egyptian hieroglyphic scene—form a gallery of these costumes. The joke walks through them all, smiling, adjusting its veil, and proving beyond doubt the old maxim that “the old ones are the best”.
Strangers: A Memoir of Marriage
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