Almost Like Being in Love Puns

They crept in. It was pitch black and stone quiet. They were suddenly starting to regret this dare. Stupidly, only one brought a flash light. The aggressive darkness and inky black yielded with grudging compliance but always seeming to push back. They moved cautiously onward amid the dust and cobwebs. The floor creaked. They breathed in tight, quick breaths. You could hear a pin drop.

Suddenly, there was a deep moan. "OOOOOOOOUUUUU". It seemed from below them. The house had been abandoned for years. Who or what could make such a sound? The boys looked at each other, but continued on, hearts pounding in their chests.

As they proceeded into the kitchen they encountered a swarm of flies. Buzzing and beating their necks and faces, they rushed and stumbled to the door, not stopping to see what they were truly feasting on. They slammed the door behind them. Maybe a body? But no way were they going back to find out. And again came the sound, "ooooOOOOOooooOOUUU" but louder this time, and closer.

They proceeded through the dark into the dining room. They saw a fully set dining table covered in cob webs. Dust-covered regal-looking glasses, goblets and silverware adorned the table. Spiders climbed on ivory plates. Clearly a house of privilege and set for a grand feast which never happened.

Or, perhaps, met a fatal end?

They pushed on. But again that unearthly howl.

"oooooOOOOOOOOOOOUuuuuUUUUuuUUOOOOooo".

They found the basement staircase, and from below, the sounds seemed to be emanating. Could they proceed? Would they? Did they dare? Two of the boys looked at each other, faces filled with worry.

But the third said, confidently, "We're going down there." Not wanting to seem the weaker, the other two boys steeled themselves and nodded.

The stairs creaked and groaned evily under their feet. The rickety banister shook in angry defiance. Insects and vermin scattered underneath them with every step. They were descending into hell, they knew, but none would turn back.

And the sound: "oOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUuuuuUUOOOO". Now loud enough to fill not only their heads but seeming to claw at their very souls!

Now at the basement door! The antique, crying squeak of the hinges eeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEee made the boys wince and almost cover their ears. But they had to know. WHAT is making that horrible, terrible sound?

"ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUoooooUUUUUUUOOOOOOO"

In the center of the basement lay an unholy coffin! A twisted artistic expression of murder, decay and

Trevor loved tractors. And I mean, really loved tractors. Forget any obsessions or high-level interests you may have, chances are they pale in the face of Trevor’s love for tractors.

Every day Trevor would get up, in his tractor-themed bedroom in his tractor-themed house, with its tractor-themed wallpaper and tractor-themed carpets, and he would make his bed with its tractor-themed duvet and tractor-themed sheets. He would go downstairs in his tractor-themed pajamas into his tractor-themed kitchen, with its tractor-themed tiles and cupboards, and he would eat his breakfast while perusing the latest tractor-themed magazine or annual.

Trevors’s degree in Agricultural Engineering hung on his living room wall, along with a copy of his thesis, which centred around (you guessed it) tractors. The living room was decorated with all sorts of tractor-related trinkets, including die-cast models, paintings and drawings.

The hedges in Trevor’s front garden were trimmed in the shape of tractors. His lawn was vividly decorated with tractor-driving garden gnomes, and his garden furniture was constructed from various parts from vintage tractor designs.

Trevor just had one thing missing from his otherwise tractor-centric life; he had never actually owned, nor driven, a real tractor.

Not for his lack of trying, of course. Trevor had been to many tractor shows over the years, and visited many farms with friends of his, but none of the tractors he had seen had ever been quite right. Trevor was so knowledgeable about tractors that every single one he had come across had possessed some hidden trait that he wasn’t keen on. His first experience of driving a real tractor had to be perfect.

One day, Trevor was flicking through one of his favourite publications, Powertrain Quarterly, when there was a knock at the door. Trevor answered, and it was his friend and fellow tractor enthusiast, Jeff.

Trevor welcomed Jeff in, and over tea and crumpets served on tractor-themed crockery, they discussed the merits of aluminium drawbars and front-end loaders. Eventually Trevor pressed Jeff to explain the reason for his visit.

“Well” said Jeff, “As I’m sure you know the convention comes to town later”.

The convention. Trevor had been thinking of little else the past three weeks. The neighbouring town annually threw a convention for farmers, particularly farmyard machinery. There would be combine harvesters, lawnmowers, and of course, tractors.

“Yes of course” replied Trevor

John started working in a color pigment company which specialises in mixing and editing different color pigments according to their customers's demands. Once the color pigments were done, they would be mailed out to the customers with a detailed note commenting on the properties of the produced color pigments. John was placed in the 'Pink Pigment' department which was incidentally between the 'Red Pigment' and 'White Pigment' departments. He was really good at his job and was constantly praised for the great work he produced.

However after a month or so, John found that a number of his work was being duplicated and mailed to almost all of his customers. Worse of all, instead of a proper note commenting on the color pigment properties, these duplicated products were accompanied with rather bad puns and jokes. One repeating joke which irritated him the most was: 'What do you call a country with only pink cars? A pink car-nation.'

Upset, he went to his manager to complain about the problem. After listening to John, his manager said, "Oh boy, looks like I need to talk to the manager of the 'Red Pigment' department again. This is not the first time that it has happened. Those Red-editors in that department love to copy and repost other people's original work as their own."
John then asked, "How are you so sure that it was them who are responsible?"
His manager replied, "Well, you can be certain that it is them as they always love jokes or puns especially in the comment section."

So every night for the past almost 6 years I sing her the Sunshine Song

You know, "you are my Sunshine, my only sunshine."

And after a few years I got tired of it and would start songs from the nightmare before Christmas (because I'm a big elfman nerd) and Part of your world (because I'm completely obsessed with singing out of key chick verses and the little mermaid is dope af) but she would SCREAM anytime I started anything that wasn't the Sunshine song, I love this, so I go on for a couple bars while she's screaming then calm her down and sing the right song. To be fair, she likes the I'm On The Outside by boingo, so I belt that too. Although it's only acceptable in the car.

Now here I want to add that in the description of the event I will place a * where she interrupts me and the words immediately after that * will be her words.

Ok, so she's in bed just now and I said What song do you want me to sing?

Obvs sunshine dude.

So I start with the "look at this stuff, isn't it neat?"

And she's not screaming, she has a smile on her face so my mind is like "did she become ok with this, can I finally sing a different song than sunshine and eponas song?" So I keep going thinking that I finally won.

I get to the line, "Fliiping your fins, you won't get too **fart!"

I'm fucking dead this kid played me like a fiddle.

Someone call 911 I'm ded