Once a-pun a time, or a-pun many times as the case may be, I have encountered the Cthulu of humour: that wildly inexplicable phrase “excuse the pun”. It lurks in the depths of people’s minds in defiance of all rationality, issuing an endless call to silence true humour. But to those of us who love the craft, it is like a whisper out of the darkness, a terrifying horror that would hook us in to red-y demise.
I’m tired of trucking on with these puntificating oppunents. It’s time they yielded to humour, shifted away from the criticism, and gave it all a brake. To see this terror come to a screeching halt: that would be terrific.
Yet what could Terminate it? The endless litany drones on and on, the same robotic response to every bit of the puns that are told. Is the intelligent artifice of puns truly to be so cast aside, filed away forever or made null and void? Rebuking a pun has no more merit than some sudo-science, and why it is permitted to root around our lives with such apt power I know not. But when all is sed and done, when the awk-ward second passes, the pun is once again cast out of our memory streams.
The train of thought is derailed, but the opposition remains well on track, coal-dly judging each freightening attempt at humour with the speed of a bullet.
These dark powers are never gone from my door. I am ever framed in their light, thresh-held at the edge of doom as mountains of opposition arise. The call returns ever stronger, one ringing shout to bear the words after another: “excuse the pun!”, “pun not intended!” Sadly every time, I can naught but think: “Eye saw that one coming.”
The train of thought is derailed, but the opposition remains well on track, coal-dly judging each freightening attempt at humour with the speed of a bullet
But I believe there is humour in this world yet, humour that is worth fighting for. Because if you haven’t guessed from these riddles laid before you, I am something of a pun-master myself. To be honest, I just picked it up one day, and I liked it.
So I Marvel eternally at the Stark opposition I face. It is low key very disconcerting, a hulking monster that would see pun-masters resigned to silence for all time. Forever this bewitching cycle wears on.
Day by day I try to get those around me to snap out of it – an effort they see as most Strange. Yet be it by improvisation or doctored attempts, it is oft that all but those closest to me escape the inevitable web of humour I spin. And at the end of the day the puns are no more to them than a blip in an otherwise good day.
Yet in spite of it all, I sail against this tide. Waving goodbye to these inhibitions, oar putting the criticism at bay, is all I can do to avoid r-utter disaster. My current efforts have availed me: the old enemies that would alba-tross me to and fro have faded after shelling out their dislike, and at times I am left with the deep well of humour all about me.
These short spells of peace are truly magical moments, though even more so is it to find another who seas them the same. Those people are entirely enchanting – the sort of amaging souls that can transmute words into golden humour. For a second the wand-ering can ebb and the humour can flow.
So this is why I feel sheepish, baaa-ffled and forever surrounded by the woolves that oppose me
It is around these few enchanting people that the best of humour orb-its. Why is it, then, that as quickly as another comes allong the same olf “excuse the pun” turns up again?
Pun-masters must have some gravity that pulls this criticism, I should think: thus is to be a star. Or do others simply planet out perfectly? It is near impossible to a-void, the age-old call that somehow always fills the space about me.
So this is why I feel sheepish, baaa-ffled and forever surrounded by the woolves that oppose me. Will nothing steer us off this course? The udder disdain of seeing humour punted away by such bull-ies, it is something that little can moo-ve away.
I am dogged on every side, I could say, hounded by enough opposing barks to be a tree – save that I will not leaf it alone.
No matter what comes, I am determined to root out this opposition to puns, to branch into new areas, to grow, and to prove my long-held ax-iom – that puns are the flower of humour. Maybe I shall even one day find the seeds of peace – a treety to sign to weed through it all, and puns so open that none have to beat around the bush.
Such times would stick out as among the best of all: if only they wood come. “Whatever floats your boat” is my be-leaf– if only such times wood. Yet such is the life of a pun mast-er, to watch the tides of life ever rigged against me with the prow-ress and force to cast me overboard.
So if one day all these hardships have sailed and gone, that shore would be wonderful. It’s not smooth sailing from here to there, but water we waiting for? The path is clear, the road made open: we must not look to excuse the pun or apologise for it – that is nothing but punishment.
No matter what comes, I am determined to root out this opposition to puns, to branch into new areas, to grow, and to prove my long-held ax-iom
If we truly wish for humour to reign, for laughter to pour down and end the poor state of modern jokes, then we must thunderously rebuke the opposition to puns. I cannot forecast weather this will succeed, if the pressure will lever let up on this front or if people’s vision remain clouded and all humour fog-gotten. Yet I hope that the light of puns will not fade, that their days shall never be dun.
What we need, at long last, is a champion who can stand for humour weather in wind and rain. A warrior who could stand against the dark lords, then maybe this would be the day where our strength refuses to fail. We need an Arthurian figure who can at long last gather round our social tables and end this tempestuous cliché: “excuse the pun.”
In the end, only one truth remains. If that cliché is to fall, our champion must be a dark and stormy knight.
Thank you, I’ll be here all night.