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Original tom puns
Would an auctioneer who constantly traveled all over the globe to various auctions be known as a "Roads Caller"?
There was once an area in Europe where the people were very proud of their religious heritage, and of their Bishop.
One day the Bishop was approached by a delegation of the people, who said they had an issue they needed to discuss with him.
"And what might that be?" inquired the Bishop.
"Well, Your Excellence, it's about some of your religious paraphernalia."
"What, in particular?"
"Well, sir, it's your Bishop's Crook. It is a symbol of your authority, and we ... well, we have not been able to escape noticing that it has become somewhat ... soiled ... over the years. We would like, as your congregation, to offer to have it restored to its former glory."
"Well, my good people," said the Bishop, "that is a kind and most generous offer; I would be remiss in my duties as your spiritual leader if I were to say no."
So, the good people of the parish searched long and hard, until they found a man who they felt embodied the spirit of their beliefs and philosophy.
Garth.
They approached Garth, and told him they needed someone to clean up their Bishop's Crook.
"Why yes, I can do that! In fact it is a specialty of my family's. We have been cleaning Bishop's mitres, crooks, and vestments for five generations. Is there anything special I should know about this particular Crook?"
"Well, yes, there is one thing" said the group's leader. "We have noticed that the part of the Crook which is grasped by His Excellency's hand has become almost black from use. Can you restore it to it's original condition?"
"Certainly," replied Garth, "bring it in to my shop, and I'll soon have it looking good as new."
So the Bishop's Crook was brought in and Garth went to work on it. Within a few days it was done, and the congregation proudly presented it to the very grateful prelate. Indeed, he was so grateful he took to using it on every possible occasion for which he could find an excuse.
A few months went by, and to the horror of the entire congregation, the crook had once again turned black where the Bishop grasped it during ceremonies.
Furious, they brought it back to Garth's shop and demanded to know why it had reverted to its previous appearance, and so quickly.
"When you brought the crook to me, " responded Garth, " you neglected to mention its age - that crook is at least three hundred years old!"
"What's that got to do with anything?" they demanded.
"Well," he said, "the trouble with these things is that once they reach about a hundred years of age, the patina is so ingrained that any attempts to clean them are doomed to failure. It's quite similar to what the police say - the Crook always returns to the sheen of the grime!"
If you spilled a couple of your American beers in the spaces between your patio stones, would they now be called crack Coors?
this pun is actually from the early nineties when Mag and I lived in
Glencoe, and has just resurfaced from my fluctuating memory banks
into active memory. At the time it was aimed at two friends who share a proclivity for puns and also all things Calvin and Hobbsian.
The story takes place on the set of a play called MacBeth, by some writer,
name of Shakespeare. You may have heard of him.
Few people know this, but in those days there was already a popular peasant dish made by chopping, cooking and chilling pork.
Even back then it was known as Spam.
One day Lady MacBeth had guests over of whom she was considerably less than enamoured, and had Cook serve them Spam for dinner.
One of the guests was a highly vigourous consumer of food, and when he had cleared his plate there was a very greasy spot left on the tablecloth beside his plate.
Of course the tablecloth was pure Irish linen, and an heirloom
as well. They simply couldn't leave it in that condition!
The maids tried everything in their power to remove that spot, but to no avail.
Finally Lady MacBeth herself had a go at it, getting down on her hands and knees
with a washboard and scrubbing furiously at the disfigured tablecoth. After almost an hour of relentlessly labouring at it, she despaired.
Her piteous cry could be heard as far away as the castle courtyard ... "Out, out, Spam dot!"
Many people have heard the stirring tale of William Tell and how he was forced by the Austrian overlord's man to shoot an arrow at an apple sitting on top of his son's head, in return for their lives.
Not many, however, realise that he had been offered an alternative contest. He was given a chance to enter a nine-pin bowling tournament. The terms were: if he won they lived, if he lost they died.
William, however, declined. He did not want his son to go down in history as the lad for whom the Tell bowls.
Then there was the Pharoah with such a serious gastrointestinal disorder that behind his back he came to be known as Toot Uncommon.
If a potato could think, would you call it a meditater?
This is more of a contemplative thought than a pun, but ...
I've been thinking about what to call this decade. Everyone has heard of last century's
Twenties, the Sixties, the Eighties, etc. And the next decade will obviously be called the "Teens".
The years are written with a two, aught, aught, whatever. For example this year is two,
aught,aught, seven. Next year will be two, aught, aught, eight.
So, we might as well call this decade The Twoaughts.
So did you know when Franz Josef Haydn was a young man his father sent him to India to enhance his musical training? While there he stunned his entire family by converting to the Sikh religion. The headlines could be read all over Europe. "Haydn Goes Sikh!" they proclaimed.
If you accidentally burned down your own library, would you run the risk of making an ash of your shelf?
There is an incident in the Lord of the Rings story which to this day has remained untold.
It occured when Frodo and Sam and Gollum were travelling through the mountains.
A mysterious translucent figure appeared before them and told them that they had to pass a test
in order to proceed further. He gave them each a small lump of wax. They were to take their lump of wax
and climb to the peak of a rocky crag barely visible in the mists overhead.
When they arrived there they would
each be given a small piece of candle wick, to be combined with their wax to make a candle over the small fire
they would find burning at the mountain top. They were then to burn their candles together on an altar in order
to summon the aid of an Elven Guardian, who would transport them magically to a much further mountain top,
across an almost impassable abyss.
After much travail, Frodo and Sam managed to struggle to the top where they were met by the
same wraith-like figure, who silently handed each a small mold and a wick for their candles. They made and lit their candles.
Gollum, meanwhile, being the lazy creature he was, took a very long nap on the way up.
When he finally awoke, it was many hours later, and he scrabbled the rest of the way to the top.
There he met only the translucent figure. Frodo and Sam were long gone. "Give me my candle wick!" screamed Gollum.
"No!" answered the wraith. "Whyever not?" he cried. "There is no wick for the rested!" came the reply.