Surely you jest (“Don’t call me Shirleyâ€)
Light blogging, indeed. Missed two important blogbursts. *sigh* Maybe I’ll fit ‘em in today.
I’ll be in and out today so I thought I’d go for something a lil different. I haven’t taken/made the time to get the tech squared away in my head, so I’ll have to come on back and do it manually, but here goes. Diane, at Diane’s Stuff (what else? ;~) posted a long-winded story that depends on a groaner of a pun. Love it. I’ll probably post my fav in a sec, here.
The deal:
Post your fav pun-groaner of a story, either in comments here or on your blog. If in comments here, I’ll bring it “out front†with full credit (or blame) for you. If on your blog, trackback and I’ll bring the tracked back link out front here. A lil mini-open links post kinda deal.
OK: a fav story with hook or punchline a groaner of a pun.
This, reproduced from a Wikipedia article on shaggy dog stories, is a version of my fav (and saves me from having to type the thing out):
Well into his career, Quasimodo, most famous and accomplished of Notre Dame bellringers, died in his sleep. As he was not the best-liked of individuals, mourning was brief, and afterward the church was left sans bellringer. Quasimodo had been working there for quite a long time, and as such the priests did not know how to go about looking for a replacement. After much deliberation, they decided to hold an audition.
Notre Dame being such a prestigious cathedral, people came from far and wide to audition for the job of bellringer. The priests were stunned; they hadn’t expected such response. They got to the tedious labor of interviewing each of the would-be ringers, and continued at it for an entire month before finally reaching the end of the line. By this point, they were extremely disheartened: every last one of the applicants they had interviewed thus far was nothing less than awful at bellringing. The last one, from a single look alone, promised to be no improvement: he had no arms!
As frustrated as they were, the prospect of a no-armed bellringer was amusing to the priests, so instead of simply dismissing him they put him through the interview process. “Do you have any experience in the field of bellringing?” they asked. “I’ve worked at several churches and cathedrals throughout Europe,” he told them, “and all of the priests I have worked with will be happy to provide references.” This intrigued the priests, so they probed further. “How do you ring the bells, with no arms?” Unfazed, he told asked, “May I demonstrate?” They brought him up to the bell-tower. He stood back from one of the bells, bent down, and ran at it, striking it with his face, then repeating this with the other bells, producing the most beautiful music the priests had ever heard. They hired him on the spot.
Things went swimmingly for several months. Every morning the bellringer woke up early to ring the bells, creating unique music and helping to maintain Notre Dame’s place as the foremost of France’s cathedrals. The citizens loved his music, and everything was fantastic. Then, one day, there was a tragic accident. The bell ringer backed up, as usual, and ran at the bell- but missed it entirely. He charged out of the tower, falling to his death.
As his body laid on the street below, a crowd began to gather. The individuals surrounding him muttered amongst themselves: nobody knew who he was. “Who is this?” was the question on everyone’s lips. “Whose body is this?” Someone finally piped up:
“I don’t know, but his face sure rings a bell.”
So Notre Dame was once again out a bellringer. The audition process had ended up working out well for the priests the previous time, so they decided to hold a second audition. Once again, people came from far and wide to audition for the honor of being the person to ring Notre Dame’s bells. As a matter of fact, most of them were the same people, undaunted by their previous failures. The priests once again went down the line, interviewing the applicants one by one, only to find that once again they were all simply terrible. Finally they reached the last person in line. Once again, they were shocked to find that he had no arms. What was more, he bore a striking resemblance to the previous bellringer.
“That’s funny,” said one of the priests. “You look a lot like the last guy we had in here!” The interviewee replied, “Well, I ought to! He was my brother!” His list of credentials was even longer than the last man’s, and the music (which he played in much the same manner) was even more beautiful. Of course, they hired him immediately. Once again, things went great for several months, and the priests thanked God for their good fortune in finding not one but two such gifted individuals. But, just like the last time, one day there was an accident. The bellringer backed up, ran at the bell, missed it, and fell out of the tower, landing on his face and dying instantly.
Once again, a puzzled crowd gathered around the body on the street. “Who is this?” they asked. “Who has died in the street?” Nobody seemed to know. This went on for some time, until someone finally interjected:
“I don’t know his name, but he’s a dead ringer for his brother!”
There ya are. Any takers for more contributions?
Dr. Phat Tony offers this lil groaner in comments (note: it works much better when you sing the punchline… and no, I’m not telling you what tune, yet. Think 40s-era swing)
One morning Roy Rogers woke up early to make use of his new running shoes he had just bought. He told Dale Evans that he was going to try them out by running around the neighborhood and would be back in an hour. Dale Evans was just finishing breakfast, when Roy Rogers burst into the house looking like he had been caught in a thresher from the knees down. Dale asked, “Roy, what happened to your legs and wear are your new shoes?”
Roy responded, “I was running along and I was attacked by a mountain lion. The cougar scratched, clawed, and bit at my new shoes. I was lucky to escape alive. We have to go back out there and find that mountain lion before anyone else gets hurt.”
So, Roy and Dale left their house in search of the shoe hating mountain lion. As they were clearing a hill, Dale Evans spots a mountain lion, turns to Roy and says, (in song) “Pardon me Roy is that the cat that chewed your new shoes?”
And another from DPT:
To get the full effect, this should be read aloud. You will understand what ‘tenjewberrymuds’ means by the end of the conversation.
The following is a telephone exchange between a hotel guest and room-service, at a hotel in Asia, which was recorded and published in the Far East Economic Review:
Room Service (RS): “Morrin. Roon sirbees.”
Guest (G): “Sorry, I thought I dialed room-service.”
RS: “Rye..Roon sirbees..morrin! Jewish to oddor sunteen??”
G: “Uh..yes..I’d like some bacon and eggs.”
RS: “Ow July den?”
G: “What??”
!RS: “Ow July den?…pryed, boyud, poochd?”
G : “Oh, the eggs! How do I like them?
Sorry, scrambled please.”
RS: “Ow July dee baykem? Crease?”
G: “Crisp will be fine.”
RS : “Hokay. An Sahn toes?”
G: “What?”
RS:”An toes. July Sahn toes?”
G: “I don’t think so.”
RS: “No? Judo wan sahn toes??”
G: “I feel really bad about this, but I don’t know what ‘judo wan sahn toes’ means.”
RS: “Toes! toes!…Why jew don juan toes? Ow bow Anglish moppin we bodder?”
G: “English muffin!! I’ve got it! You were saying ‘Toast.’ Fine. Yes, an English muffin will be fine.”
RS: “We bodder?”
G: “No…just put the bodder on the side.”
RS: “Wad?”
G: “I mean butter…just put it on the side.”
RS: “Copy?”
G: “Excuse me?”
RS: “Copy…tea…meel?”
G: “Yes. Coffee, please, and that’s all.”
RS: “One Minnie. Scramah egg, crease baykem, Anglish moppin we bodder on sigh and copy….rye??”
G: “Whatever you say.”
RS: “Tenjewberrymuds.”
G : “You’re very welcome.”
OK, so it’s not dependent on a pun, but Woody’s trackback with this morality play of a tale that I just can’t pass up. I just bet family reuinions are fun in that family…
