Black Point Puns

I'm already an organ donor

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

He said, “Sorry. There is no Time.”

The mortician asked the deceased’s wife how she would like the body dressed. He points out the man looks good in the black suit he’s already wearing. The widow however said she thought her husband always looked his best in blue, and she would really like him in a blue suit. She then hands the mortician a blank cheque and says “I don’t care how much it costs, but please have my husband in a blue suit for the viewing.” The woman returns the next day for the wake. To her delight she finds her husband dressed in a gorgeous blue suit with a subtle chalk stripe. Remarkably, the suit fit him perfectly. She says to the mortician, “whatever this costs I’m very satisfied, you did an excellent job and I’m incredibly grateful. How much did you spend?” To her astonishment the mortician presents her with her blank cheque, and he says “there’s no charge.” Shocked she replies “no really, I feel like i must compensate you for the cost of that exquisite blue suit.” “Honestly ma’am”, the mortician says, “it costs nothing, you see a diseased gentleman about your husbands size was brought in shortly after you left yesterday. He was wearing an attractive blue suit. So I asked his wife if she minded if her husband went to the grave wearing black. She had said it made no difference so long as he looked nice. So from that point on it was really just a matter of switching the heads.”

His best friend, Roy, was known around town for having an adventurous streak that a small town just couldn't satisfy. Roy yearned to travel the world, to rub shoulders with the well-to-do, and to squeeze every drop of excitement he could out of life. While most young folk in town, my grandpa included, were resigned to their lot, Roy was driven by his dream. He worked incredibly hard, taking every hired-hand and handy-man job he could find. He would walk five miles each way to clean a gutter if there was a nickel to be made. His hometown was always spotless, because Roy would pick up every glass bottle he saw to get the deposit back, and every can he found would get turned in for recycling.

The years stretched on. Grandpa settled down with his high school sweetheart in a one-room cottage and had my dad, and not much else. Roy kept hurrying from one job to the next, never spending a dime on a date. Everyone would just roll their eyes and quietly gossip about how poor Roy's obsession was robbing him of a real life.

One day, Roy showed up at Grandpa's house, all decked out in a brand new khaki safari kit, complete with helmet, binoculars, and elephant gun, and announced that he had finally saved up enough for passage to Africa to go big game hunting. He was especially proud of the fine leather boots he was sporting. "Indestructable" he called them, totally impenetrable to water, wind, and snow. No trench-foot for him while he tracked rhinos on the savannah!

Grandpa congratulated Roy on his achievement and wished him bon voyage. Over the next three months, the town felt Roy's absence. Litter lay where it fell, gutters overflowed in heavy rain, small-time farmers rose that bit earlier and bedded that bit later to cover the work Roy used to help with. Of course, the gossipers just turned their chat from how Roy needed a dose of reality to how thoughtless it was of him to just up and leave. Most folks were convinced Roy was gone for good. After all, how could he come back from such a high-falutin' adventure to his tiny, no-account hometown?

But return Roy did, and everyone crowded around at the bar to hear his account of his safari. To their surprise, Roy told them that, for all the time he had been away, he only bagged one trophy that was currently on a slow boat back. It turned out, once Roy got a close-up look at the elephants, rhinos, giraffes, gazelles, and all the fine animals of the African savannah, he lost all heart for hunting. He just couldn't imagi

What is often characterized as a very conservative organization has taken a stance against racism. I'm not surprised at all though. To anyone who's been paying attention, from its very beginnings, NASCAR has always been veering to the left.

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

However, the mole couldn't reach them from the high trees and he struggled to climb them. Luckily, there was a tall giraffe who offered to help and got the oranges down for the mole.

The mole would go up to the giraffe every morning and ask him for some oranges. The giraffe would happily oblige but little by little he would get more irritated. One day, the giraffe finally got mad and told the mole to see the badger who could make a tool to help him get the oranges down from the tree.

The mole trundled over to the badger and asked him to make him a tool to help with the orange problem. The badger happily agreed to help and went into his shed. For a few days after: cutting, grinding and sawing could be heard coming from his shed when he finally emerged with a 4-pointed tool. He then proceeded to demonstrate the 4-point tool by sticking it into an orange and allowing the juice from which to drain down the arm of the tool.

The mole was extremely happy and excited by his new magnificent 4-point tool and showed everyone it's amazing capabilities. After a while, however, he realised he had shown it to pretty much everyone. Then he remembered the black cat resting under the oak tree. So he walked over to the tree and tried to show the black cat the 4-point tool. The cat said he couldn't see it properly and asked the mole to come closer. The mole took a few steps forward. Again, the black cat requested the mole to come closer and the mole cautiously stepped closer. Finally the black cat lunged forward and ate the 4-point tool.

The mole couldn't believe it and exclaimed, "Why did you do that?"

To which the black cat replied, "Oh haven't you heard? I am a 4-point tool eater Jaguar!"

Pointing to one with spots I asked, "What's this one?"

"A leopard!" He replied.

"No, it's a cheetah actually. Ypu can tell because the black marks by its eyes make it look like it's crying. Do you know why it was crying?" I asked.

"..."

"Because cheetahs never win!"

My SO noticed a black substance on his car's exhaust tip- carbon from the engine. He touched my nose with it and it stuck. He got as much as he could off, but about 15 minutes later his dad pointed out that there was still some left. I worked at it a little, then wrapped my arms around my SO's shoulder. His dad: "I guess you could say you guys are carbon dating.

A few years ago, my dad and I were building an addition onto his house. He rented a tool from the hardware store and had to return it, so he asked me to come with him and we would get some breakfast. There was a Burger King nearby, so we decided to stop there to eat.

When we go to the drive-through, we realize the restaurant was closed down, so he drove around the building to get back on the highway. As we were passing the dumpsters, he stopped the car, backed it up, and pointed towards the ground near the dumpster. I looked for a few seconds, trying to see what he was pointing at.

Then... I saw it.

It was a giant, 12+ inch black dildo, standing upright next to the dumpster. It propped itself up on its fake dildo balls, gently swaying in the breeze.

I was astonished. I couldn't even imagine what events in the universe had to line-up so as to end up with that giant dildo meticulously placed next to the dumpster at a closed-down Burger King. I couldn't even begin to fathom why it was there.

My dad, with perfect timing, then shouted "GAY TIMES WILL BE HAD TONIGHT!" and sped out of the parking lot.

We ended up going to Denny's.

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

They snuck from their beds in the middle of the night and met in the gloomy darkness in front of the house, shivering in the cold.

The first boy said in a loud whisper, "You guys bring anything?" He slid a gun out of his pocket. The second boy nodded and revealed a knife. The third boy pulled out a flashlight.

"You didn't bring a weapon?" the first boy asked. He shrugged and replied, "Sorry". And as if to prove it, he turned his pockets out to show nothing but stray lint and a pack of cough drops.

They crept in. The door shut behind them. It was pitch black and stone quiet. They were suddenly starting to regret this dare. The flash light clicked on. 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 on the other side, not stopping to see what they were truly feasting on. They slammed the door behind them. Maybe a dead 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 found a fully set, ornate dining table covered in cob webs. Dust-covered regal goblets, pitchers and silverware adorned the table. Spiders crept over 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 hel

.. and he's wearing an expensive, expertly tailored black suit. The mortician asks the deceased's wife how she would like the body dressed, pointing out that the man does look good in the black suit he is already wearing. The widow, however, says that she always thought her husband looked his best in blue, and that she wants him in a blue suit. She gives the mortician a blank check and says, 'I don't care what it costs, but please have my husband in a blue suit for the viewing.' The woman returns the next day and to her delight, she finds her husband dressed in a gorgeous blue suit with a subtle chalk stripe; the suit fits him perfectly. She says to the mortician, 'Whatever this cost, I'm very satisfied.. You did an excellent job and I'm very grateful. How much did you spend?' To her astonishment, the mortician presents her with the blank check, 'There's no charge.' 'No, really, I must compensate you for the cost of that exquisite blue suit,' she says. 'Honestly, ma'am,' the mortician says, 'it cost nothing. You see, a deceased gentleman of about your husband's size was brought in shortly after you left yesterday, and he was wearing an attractive blue suit. I asked his wife if she minded him going to his grave wearing a black suit instead, and she said it made no difference as long as he looked nice.' 'So I just switched the heads.'