The Official Bad Puns Topic

Horses; born to refuse.

edited 18th Jan '10 7:56:26 AM by zeroplusalpha

We were talking in class about queues and I was memorizing stuff by going "job queue, task queue, barbecue"...

edited 18th Jan '10 7:59:27 AM by Kinkajou

Bread; who kneads it?

Dough you need it it yourself?

I doughnut; the task is sprinkled with moments of enjoyment, but I mostly just glaze over.

*Cracks up*

edited 18th Jan '10 8:16:25 AM by zeroplusalpha

In my life I have murdered many a stalk of wheat, a grain of rice, a cob of maize, a sheaf of rye.

I am... a cereal killer.

YEAHHHHHHHHH!

These spoon-fed puns are a habit I should breakfast, lest I milk them for all they're worth.

Sheep like this topic.

I was in the chemistry lab when I saw the sodium hydroxide flakes all bunched up and caked. I concluded that the cake was a lye.

Alright, favorite Shaggy Dog time. This is going to be a long one, so buckle in.

There is a mountain range with a number of small towns in the midst of it, chief among them Northton, Browerville and Task. Long ago, the three towns used to have a lot of trade between them, but in modernity they no longer have any real need for contact. This disconnect devastated the economy of Northton, and it's become nearly a ghost town as all of the young people have moved away. Only those too poor to leave and those who obstinately cling to their home remain. The town of Browerville has fared much better due to the discovery of a tungsten mine just north of town, but the place has definitely seen better days. The most peculiar of these places, however, is Task.

Task has a really nontraditional economy, and it clings very tightly to old ways of life. It is an extremely conservative town, nearly Luddite in its simplicity. Every person there has but one job, often inherited from his parents. This robs the townspeople of their freedom in a lot of ways, but they consider it superior to modern ideas about chasing after a career you're not sure you want for years and frittering away your youth in fruitless pursuits that, it should be noted, most people abandon in favor of something much like what their parents did anyway.

And so John the Baker makes the town's bread with grains he receives from Silas the Miller. Larry the Butcher sells good, quality cuts of meat, which he obtains from traders that come in to town every couple of weeks to supply the townsfolk with materials that they can't farm themselves. Sheriff Jones and his deputy, Standish, keep the peace and order. Judge Morton is the most respected man in town, and so you might think that his job is the most important, but that distinction falls to another fellow.

There's a hermit without a name, known simply as the Bellringer, who lives in solitude in a tiny shack in a hill that overlooks town. Near his shack is a rickety old wooden tower, built over a hundred years ago and never renovated, that contains a beautiful bell. The bell is made of polished brass, and the sound of its ringing is like a choir of angels. Nobody ever sees the Bellringer, but the townsfolk assume that he's the one responsible for keeping the bell in such amazing condition. In any event, he most definitely has the most important job in town. He rings the bell each morning at five o'clock sharp, waking the town. He rings the bell again each noon, to call for the town's lunch break. He rings the bell each evening at five o'clock in the evening to let the townsfolk know that the workday is finished. His ringing is so consistent and so punctual that noone in the town of Trask even owns a clock: the Bellringer provides all of the marking of time needed.

The Bellringer is venerable; the oldest man in town. Nobody can remember a time before he was ringing the bell. He is one of those personalities that seems to have never been born, but instead to have spontaneously come into being as a bitter old man with a stare as salty as seawater and breath that smells like cognac and cigarettes.

And so it was. The town of Task was running peaceably, like towns used to in the old days when people knew one another and worked hard all day. Under the Bellringer's direction, the town was destined to prosper quietly for all time.

One morning, however, John the Baker awoke an hour late. He assumed that he had simply slept through the bell, for he was a relatively laid back and lazy man, and he had done so before. He went to his bakery and opened shop, apologizing to the angry customers that were waiting outside his door and bearing the mocking smirk of his young apprentice. He was busy all morning trying to catch up on his work. The day seemed to drag on forever. Where, oh where, was that lunch bell? But John wasn't just having a bad day; the lunch bell never came.

There was great commotion. The townsfolk gathered outside and gossiped all about it. The town ground to a halt. After some long deliberation, it was decided that Deputy Standish be sent up to the Bellringer's shack to check on the old curmudgeon. The deputy hiked two miles through foot-thick snow to the rickety old shack. He knocked on the door and waited politely. There was no answer. Again, he knocked. No answer. Nervously, Standish looked over his shoulder. "Perhaps the old man's just up in the belltower," he said to himself, unable to work up the nerve to open the shack door. Standish walked the distance to the belltower, about three hundred yards. He could see that there was noone in the tower, but he walked all the way up the seventy-two stairs and checked anyhow, calling out for the Bellringer. His nervousness building into real fear, Standish climbed back down all seventy-two belltower steps one at a time. He approached the shack, his knees shaking now, and knocked again, waiting for an answer. Finally, he couldn't put it off any more. He opened the door.

Surely enough, there was the Bellringer, slumped over his breakfast, stone dead. Standish returned to town and broke the news to the Sheriff. Sheriff Jones took Standish to Judge Morton, where they explained the whole thing to him. The Sheriff and the Judge deliberated awhile, and finally decided to sleep on the matter. In the meantime, they ordered Standish not to tell anyone in town what had really happened, for fear that it would offend some of the more delicate townsfolk's sensibilities.

That night, there was a knock on Judge Morton's door. Someone was calling on him far later than Judge Morton usually accepted company. It was Silas the Miller, and with him a young man that the judge had never seen before. The stranger was a young man with short brown hair, brown eyes, tanned skin and an obvious physical defect: the man had no arms. Silas the Miller explained that the young man had come into town, and wanted to speak to the mayor. Since Judge Morton was the closest thing the town had, Silas had brought the young man to him. Judge Morton invited the young man into his home, and Silas left for his own home, and most likely bed.

The young man introduced himself, "Hello, your honor. My name is Horatio, and I want to live in your town."

"Hello, Horatio," Judge Morton said, "I'm sorry, but our town really doesn't allow outsiders to move in often. We're a peaceful people, and we don't like to be disturbed by outsiders. Why would a young lad like yourself want to live in a small town like this, anyhow?" the Judge asked.

Horatio replied, "Well, sir, as you may have noticed, I don't have any arms. Everywhere I go, people make fun of me, or else they pity me. I can't live with all of that attention on me. I want to live up here in the mountains, where I can have my solitude."

Horatio nearly teared up as he told his story, and Judge Morton's heart was touched. "Well son," the Judge said, "I'd like to offer you a place to live here, but I'm afraid there aren't a lot of jobs that need done. We only have one job opening here, and I'm afraid you'll not be able to do it without any arms."

Horatio puffed up his chest, "I pride myself on being able to do anything a man with arms can do. You show me any job, and I'll find a way to do it. I promise that I won't bother you or your townspeople. You won't even know I'm here."

"Well," the Judge said, "I can't argue with an attitude like that. I'll show you what we need, and if you can do the job then you're welcome to stay."

So Judge Morton took Horatio out to the shack two miles outside of town. "This would have to be your home," the Judge said, half hoping that this condition would scare the newcomer off. To the contrary, Horatio broke into a huge smile when he saw the place. "This is perfect!" he said, "Exactly as I dreamed. I'll be able to live a quiet, peaceful life here."

Judge Morton shrugged, then took Horatio three hundred yards to the belltower. He wasn't too bothered; he knew there would be no way for Horatio to ring the bell. "Your job," he explained to the lad, "would be to ring this bell each day at five o'clock in the morning, noon, and five o'clock at night."

Horatio looked at the belltower, his face grim. He didn't answer for several minutes, obviously deep in contemplative thought. Finally, Judge Morton said, "I suppose you understand why this won't be possible for you." Horatio shook his head, "No. I can do it. Tomorrow morning at five o'clock, that bell will ring. Just leave me to my shack, and the job will be done." Surprised and with mixed feelings, the Judge said, "Very well. We'll need to prepare the shack for you. Tonight you can sleep in my home, and starting tomorrow morning this will be your new home."

The old Bellringer was buried quietly. True to Horatio's wishes, he did not reveal himself to the townspeople. And, true to Horatio's word, the bell rang the following morning at five o'clock, clear and beautiful as always.

Several weeks passed. Finally overwhelmed by curiosity, Judge Morton confided in Deputy Standish about why the bell was ringing again, and asked Standish to surreptitiously discover how Horatio was ringing the bell. Standish snuck out to the belltower very early one morning and watched as Horatio left his shack and climbed the seventy-two steps to the top of the belltower. He craned his neck to observe as Horatio backed up to the far edge of the platform, then got a running start, jumped high as he could and struck the bell full-on with his forehead. The bell sounded out, clear and proud. Standish shook his head, amazed at the lengths young Horatio had gone to in order to live in this mountain town. He reported back to the Judge, and both had a lengthy conversation about it.

Twenty-thee years passed. Old Judge Morton passed away, as did Sheriff Jones. Deputy Standish was now Sheriff Standish. Just as Horatio said, he was never seen about town. Over time, everyone forgot about him, and no word was said about the Bellringer except for curious ruminations about the one day that he had failed to ring the bell at all.

One particularly bitter night, there was a terrible ice storm. The next morning, the entire town was covered in a thin sheet of ice. Horatio woke bright and early and left for the belltower to perform his duty. He climbed the seventy-two stairs very carefully, got his running start... but as he was about to jump he slipped on an icy patch and fell off the top of the tower. Terror gripped his heart and his eyes became wide. He hardly had time to feel the surprise before he hit the ground. His neck snapped, and he died instantly.

The bell did not ring. Some of the older townsfolk gossiped about the whole matter, comparing it to the event of twenty-three years ago, when the bell also failed to ring. Sheriff Standish gathered his old friend, the retired Miller Saul, and they went out to the belltower together to see what went wrong.

The two friends found Horatio's body, twisted and contorted at the bottom of the tower. Neither of them had seen Horatio in over two decades, and so despite his distinctive characteristic the two of them were at a bit of a loss.

"Who is that?" Silas asked, "I don't really remember him, although I do think I remember an armless fella from awhile back. I thought he left town, though."

Sheriff Standish moved his pipe from the left side of his mouth to his right, shook his head, and with a voice like gravel proclaimed, "I don't know who he is, but..."

(Please go do something else for five minutes for proper suspense as to the punchline)

...his face sure rings a bell!

Please, please don't kill me.

edited 18th Jan '10 9:30:02 AM by Shrikesnest

I did something terrible the other day. My mum was watching a film (Circle Of Friends, I believe), and I asked her what it was about. She told me that it was about a group of people who went to school together, and all of them who went on a particular camping trip together are being killed.

My response? (Taking off my glasses) "Well, I guess they must be (putting glasses on) unhappy campers". My mum should either have yelled "yeeeeeeeeeah" or hit me, but she did neither.

edited 18th Jan '10 9:32:47 AM by Idler2.0

For some reason the puns that fly around me always seem to be about birds. I don't know why, I never start it, but once the topic is breached everyone else quails or chickens out, and I'm the only one who'll take a tern. It'd be enough to make me start raven if I didn't know I'd never get a fair heron.

I egret nothing.

This thread is not even remotely funny.

It is stymied, stale, and uninteresting.

Therefore, this thread is a piece of moldy TV bread.

This is the best thread to ask... what marks the difference between a good and a bad pun? Do good puns actually exist?

A while ago I was talking to a friend of mine, and he got to talking about Advance Wars and how he never really was fond of Adder, as a villain or as a character, and nothing he did in the game he was in really appealed to him. "So," he told me, "I guess you could say I'm Adder's biggest subtractor."

I cursed at him for a little while.

Noimporta: Good puns are not inherently visible, and are not forced.

Much like a ninja having sex.

^^^It depunds on your audience.

edited 18th Jan '10 12:01:56 PM by Lemurian

Good puns are almost always a matter of timing. They work really well as surprise or "tension" jokes.

What, this topic comes with strings attached now?

edited 18th Jan '10 4:15:14 PM by CoyoticEvil

Yeah, I'd rather knot get tied up in rules.

Cut that out!

Sharp thinking, Haven.

Careful, you might wound your own reputation.

We need some outlet to unwind.

Life is butter melon cauliflower...