church!’ And Peter actually followed him, instead of groaning and running away!”
“That’s nice.”
“You want miracles? That’s a miracle right there!”
“Oh look, here’s my stop,” my seat partners would say, getting off at a deserted reservoir several miles from any parked cars or people.
“Jesus also had a great one about how ‘you are fishermen now, but I will make you fishers OF men’ that you really have to hear in the original Greek to get the full flavor of!” I yelled cheerily as the doors closed.
Of course, people punned long before Jesus. Aristophanes was way into puns, doing clever and untranslatable things with “proktos” (butt) and “protos” (first). Cleopatra made a famous pun to cheer up her lover Mark Antony after their troops lost the town of Toryne to Emperor Augustus. Toryne means “ladle.” “What danger can there be from a ladle falling into his hands?” she asked. Ha-HA!
I look forward to cheering up a lover in a similar way. I know a lot of puns about disease, so I am well-fortified against any possible bad news. “Hip dysplasia?” I will say. “That must displease-ya!” “Yes we cancer!” “Acute appendicitis? I think it’s just okay-looking.” “Lou Gehrig’s Disease? Sorry, uh, that—you’re on your own there.”
And history had plenty more. “Not Angles, but Angels!” said Pope Gregory, seeing some Angles for the first time. “Oh no,” the Angles said. “Oh God. Leave.” (They also said this for unrelated reasons.)
Aside from spreading the Good News, I tried to work puns into my daily life, with mixed results. Even when things got serious, I couldn’t stop. “I see your father’s retiring,” a coworker told me.
“Well,” I said, “he’s always been pretty retiring.”
Groan.
Story of my life.
• • •
And then I discovered the O.Henry Pun-Off.
Every week, as part of my duties at the
Post
, I host a chat, which mostly consists of my talking to strangers about bacon and fending off the advances of one man with a Philly IP address who wants to know if I’ve gotten my “birthday spanking” yet. Noting my fondness for puns, they suggested that I try the Pun-Off, and in May of 2012, I did.
I had been traveling a fair bit that year—Iowa! South Carolina!—but I was instantly enchanted by Austin. I had never been to Texas before, and I thought that everything there was going to be cartoonishly large. I would get off the plane and all the road signs would be large enough to swat a mammoth with. All the mosquitoes would be the size of butterflies. Butterflies would be the size of hardcover books. There would be a big beltway comprised entirely of large Bibles. Everyone would have jangling spurs and go swaggering around leading giant blue oxen behind them.
But instead there was just a bit of traffic from the airport, a couple of clean-looking, well-lighted strip clubs, a giant park full of food trailers hung with fairy lights, and some buildings that resembled big crayons. If your idea of Heaven is anything like my idea of Heaven—which is to say, lots of weirdos, corn dogs, and cheap beer—Austin is the place for you.
The O.Henry Pun-Off was preceded by dinner at a Mexican restaurant called Opal Divine’s. I sat down at the table and instantly felt at home. On the table was a whole worksheet of Punny Names for Cocktails. It was just like
Pun and Games
all over again. “Your neckwear.” Mai Thai. “Citizen of the galaxy”? Cosmo-politan.
I was as prepared on the subject of puns as I was ill-equippedwhen it came to O.Henry, the pen name of William Sydney Porter. All I had read of O.Henry was “The Gift of the Magi,” a short story about why you should never go out of your way to give somebody a thoughtful gift. “William Sydney Porter is buried in North Carolina,” said one of my dinner companions, a man with a mustache who resembled a worried moon.
“Great!” I said. “Is O.Henry buried nearby?”
He
“That’s nice.”
“You want miracles? That’s a miracle right there!”
“Oh look, here’s my stop,” my seat partners would say, getting off at a deserted reservoir several miles from any parked cars or people.
“Jesus also had a great one about how ‘you are fishermen now, but I will make you fishers OF men’ that you really have to hear in the original Greek to get the full flavor of!” I yelled cheerily as the doors closed.
Of course, people punned long before Jesus. Aristophanes was way into puns, doing clever and untranslatable things with “proktos” (butt) and “protos” (first). Cleopatra made a famous pun to cheer up her lover Mark Antony after their troops lost the town of Toryne to Emperor Augustus. Toryne means “ladle.” “What danger can there be from a ladle falling into his hands?” she asked. Ha-HA!
I look forward to cheering up a lover in a similar way. I know a lot of puns about disease, so I am well-fortified against any possible bad news. “Hip dysplasia?” I will say. “That must displease-ya!” “Yes we cancer!” “Acute appendicitis? I think it’s just okay-looking.” “Lou Gehrig’s Disease? Sorry, uh, that—you’re on your own there.”
And history had plenty more. “Not Angles, but Angels!” said Pope Gregory, seeing some Angles for the first time. “Oh no,” the Angles said. “Oh God. Leave.” (They also said this for unrelated reasons.)
Aside from spreading the Good News, I tried to work puns into my daily life, with mixed results. Even when things got serious, I couldn’t stop. “I see your father’s retiring,” a coworker told me.
“Well,” I said, “he’s always been pretty retiring.”
Groan.
Story of my life.
• • •
And then I discovered the O.Henry Pun-Off.
Every week, as part of my duties at the
Post
, I host a chat, which mostly consists of my talking to strangers about bacon and fending off the advances of one man with a Philly IP address who wants to know if I’ve gotten my “birthday spanking” yet. Noting my fondness for puns, they suggested that I try the Pun-Off, and in May of 2012, I did.
I had been traveling a fair bit that year—Iowa! South Carolina!—but I was instantly enchanted by Austin. I had never been to Texas before, and I thought that everything there was going to be cartoonishly large. I would get off the plane and all the road signs would be large enough to swat a mammoth with. All the mosquitoes would be the size of butterflies. Butterflies would be the size of hardcover books. There would be a big beltway comprised entirely of large Bibles. Everyone would have jangling spurs and go swaggering around leading giant blue oxen behind them.
But instead there was just a bit of traffic from the airport, a couple of clean-looking, well-lighted strip clubs, a giant park full of food trailers hung with fairy lights, and some buildings that resembled big crayons. If your idea of Heaven is anything like my idea of Heaven—which is to say, lots of weirdos, corn dogs, and cheap beer—Austin is the place for you.
The O.Henry Pun-Off was preceded by dinner at a Mexican restaurant called Opal Divine’s. I sat down at the table and instantly felt at home. On the table was a whole worksheet of Punny Names for Cocktails. It was just like
Pun and Games
all over again. “Your neckwear.” Mai Thai. “Citizen of the galaxy”? Cosmo-politan.
I was as prepared on the subject of puns as I was ill-equippedwhen it came to O.Henry, the pen name of William Sydney Porter. All I had read of O.Henry was “The Gift of the Magi,” a short story about why you should never go out of your way to give somebody a thoughtful gift. “William Sydney Porter is buried in North Carolina,” said one of my dinner companions, a man with a mustache who resembled a worried moon.
“Great!” I said. “Is O.Henry buried nearby?”
He
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