The term “bad pun” is at least redundant, if not fully oxymoronic. If it ain’t bad, it ain’t a pun (though I’ve never comprehended why everybody thinks the ox is so dumb).
Shakespeare punned. A flock of doves puns when it stages a coo. W.C. Fields drunkenly professed he’d “rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy” ... a gag further pickled by Dean Martin, who said, “I would rather have a free bottle in front of me than a pre-frontal lobotomy.” Even Jesus punned, suggesting He’d build his church upon Peter – a solid foundation – playing on the similarity of the apostle’s name and the Greek word for “rock.”
At Christmastide, when Guinevere saw that Lancelot’s bright new armor had been rent repeatedly with swords, she reputedly bent over the pronate form, lamenting her dying lover: “Oh holey knight!”
The best and worst of writers alike struggle for topics. Puns are definitive proof that a Writer can write about anything – absolutely anything.
As a daily newspaper columnist, I would stare out the window when blocked, and found that a bed of flowers, a fire hydrant, a telephone wire – virtually anything visible – might nurture my sleeping but unquenchable fire to communicate (sorry ’bout that). My own version of the Holy Grail was a column filled with 350-syllable words ... er, 350 salable words (can’t help it).
In college, during Finals Week, I sat with elbows splayed across a dormitory dinner table, my bleary eyes closed in rest, buried in my sleeve. My roommate approached, carb-heavy tray in hand .... “Eddie ... Eddie,” he said, gently shaking my shoulder.
“Are you tired, Eddie?” he asked in a lame Topo Gigio imitation, plucking a paper napkin from the dispenser nearest my left forearm.
“Cause if you’re tired, you know ...” he continued, brandishing the paper catalyst of his somnambulant wit, “When you’re really tired, a napkin help.”
The groans of those nearby assembled stirred me from my reverie. Nap ended. Possibly the worst pun ever.
And proof again that anybody can write 350 syllable words (exactly), if their backs are to the wall.
Shakespeare punned. A flock of doves puns when it stages a coo. W.C. Fields drunkenly professed he’d “rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy” ... a gag further pickled by Dean Martin, who said, “I would rather have a free bottle in front of me than a pre-frontal lobotomy.” Even Jesus punned, suggesting He’d build his church upon Peter – a solid foundation – playing on the similarity of the apostle’s name and the Greek word for “rock.”
At Christmastide, when Guinevere saw that Lancelot’s bright new armor had been rent repeatedly with swords, she reputedly bent over the pronate form, lamenting her dying lover: “Oh holey knight!”
The best and worst of writers alike struggle for topics. Puns are definitive proof that a Writer can write about anything – absolutely anything.
As a daily newspaper columnist, I would stare out the window when blocked, and found that a bed of flowers, a fire hydrant, a telephone wire – virtually anything visible – might nurture my sleeping but unquenchable fire to communicate (sorry ’bout that). My own version of the Holy Grail was a column filled with 350-syllable words ... er, 350 salable words (can’t help it).
In college, during Finals Week, I sat with elbows splayed across a dormitory dinner table, my bleary eyes closed in rest, buried in my sleeve. My roommate approached, carb-heavy tray in hand .... “Eddie ... Eddie,” he said, gently shaking my shoulder.
“Are you tired, Eddie?” he asked in a lame Topo Gigio imitation, plucking a paper napkin from the dispenser nearest my left forearm.
“Cause if you’re tired, you know ...” he continued, brandishing the paper catalyst of his somnambulant wit, “When you’re really tired, a napkin help.”
The groans of those nearby assembled stirred me from my reverie. Nap ended. Possibly the worst pun ever.
And proof again that anybody can write 350 syllable words (exactly), if their backs are to the wall.
No comments:
Post a Comment