Mother may I Puns

St Peter says to the nuns "Given you are nuns and have devoted your life to good works you only need to answer a single question each to enter Heaven."

He looks to the first nun and asks "where did the first woman live?"

The first nun quickly replied "the garden of Eden".

St Peter nods approval and looks to the second nun "what was the name of the first woman?"

The second nun pauses for a second and then replies "Eve."

"Well done!" Says St Peter before turning to the third nun and saying "As the Mother Superior you should be able to answer this; what did Eve say to Adam when she first saw him?"

The Mother Superior furrows her brow and says "oh, that's a hard one".

"Correct!" Says St Peter. "You may enter."

Once upon a time, there was a small desert village with a single well on the outskirts of the town. One morning, a woman went to the well to fetch water for the day. The lady was crying and the well heard this. A voice came from the well and asked “what’s wrong?”

The lady stopped sobbing and asked the well, in utter disbelief, “you can talk?”

“Yes” the well said, “long ago, the witch living in this town gave life to me so I could protect the towns people”

“Alas” the woman said, “I am the daughter of that witch. She lived in peace with the town for many years, but the new mayor, who is a violent and hateful man, riled the townspeople up against her. The town burnt my mom at the stake! I am still young and do not know much magic. I tried to curse the town, but failed, and now I fear I may never avenge my mother.”

“Do not be afraid” the well said, “I will take care of this.”

The next morning the mayor was going to the well to fetch water when he heard an odd noise. He peered over the edge to look down as far as he could when an impossibly long arm shot up at him. The arm grabbed the mayor and dragged him down into the depths of the well. There was a horrible crunching sound and the mayor was never seen again. The townsfolk apologized to the witch’s daughter and everyone lived happily ever after.

See moral above for the pun...

Two high school students named Steve and Josh found themselves broke on a saturday afternoon while strolling around in the city mall. They hadn't eaten lunch and they were getting hungry, but alas, they had no money for food and they were hours away from home.

"I heard there's a place downtown where you can get a sandwich for free" Steve said to Josh.

"That sounds great, let's check it out" Josh replied, and they headed downtown.

They soon found the place. It was a small shop, too small to feel like a real business. The place had no tables or chairs, and not really much furniture at all. An old man stood behind a small counter and eyed them as they entered.

"Welcome to the Laughing Hoagie" he said.

"What is a laughing hoagie?" Josh wondered.

"It's the name of this sandwich place. This is not a regular sandwich shop. We have a special offer here for people who can't afford to pay for their food." the man said as he smiled a toothy smile at them.

"So it's true then," Josh blurted out, "we can get free food here?"

"Not so fast." The old man said. "There is a condition."

"What is it?" Steve wondered aloud.

"Well," the man started "you have to listen to one of my jokes, and the one of you who laughs the most genuine laugh gets a free sandwhich. The other one gets nothing."

As he said this, the old man opened a small refrigerator that stood behind the counter and produced a large, footlong sandwhich with ham, cheese, bacon, lettuce and tomatoes. It was covered in a white dressing and gave off a faint peppery aroma. The boys' mouths started watering at the sight of it.

"What? So only one of us gets a sandwhich?" Steve asked, taken aback.

"Those are the rules," the old man grinned, "if you don't like it, you may leave."

"Nah, we'll hear the joke." Josh said. Steve looked at him, and then nodded to the old man.

"All right." the old man rubbed his hands together as if preparing to dig into a strenuous task.

"What did the mother Buffalo say when her boy left for college?" he asked, and looked expectantly at the teens. They both stared at him with blank expressions.

"Bye Son!" he exclaimed, and struggled not to burst out giggling at his own quip. Josh chuckled a bit, but Steve just frowned.

"That was the worst joke I ever heard!" he exclaimed.

"Well," the old man said as he handed the sandwich over to Josh, "if you don't like jokes with really bad punchlines, then this sub is not for you."

Hey guys. As I'm sure most of you know, it's currently Thanksgiving in Canada. This time of year for me has, in the past, caused a lot of issues in my life.

To give a little bit of background on me, I'm usually an extremely healthy and fit guy, as I play high-level sports and have a physically demanding job. However, for much of my life, my willpower began to crumble around this time of year.

I first started taking my diet seriously when I was about 12 years old. I had some kind of realization where like, I dunno, I started looking at how jacked these movie stars were and was all, "wow, I want to be that cool too." Judging by the bowl cut I had when I was 12, my perception of cool may have been a little skewed, but I digress.

Anyhow, it was my first Thanksgiving where everything started falling apart. One of my relative's families ended up no-showing for dinner, so we were left with a load of Thanksgiving leftovers. For the next week, every single meal or snack I had was Thanksgiving themed. Sandwich? Turkey sandwich. Breakfast? Let's dollop some cranberry sauce on that bad boy. By the next week, my BGC (blood gravy content) was probably at like 1.0%.

You'd think I'd be sick of holiday food after that. But no. I loved it.

The tradition of refrigerated Thanksgiving snacks continued throughout the rest of my teen years. Like clockwork, the numbers on the scale would significantly jump upwards in October, with Halloween candy adding an extra layer of calories on top. By the time I reached 17, my waist had begun noticeably ballooning, and I realized it was all due to Thanksgiving turkey. Sure, I had some at Christmas and sometimes at Easter, but never like that. My mother would encourage this habit, making more food each year to be stuffed into our packed refrigerator.

The movie star bod I wanted for so much at the age of 12 was slipping a way. I needed to put an end to this.

Flash forward to October 2015, age 18. I had made a vow: I never again would place such putrid poultry onto my tastebuds. And ever since that fateful week of 2014, my vow had held true.

Each Thanksgiving, I can feel that craving for chilled turkey knocking on the refrigerator door of my fragile ego. For three years, I've held strong. But when will the garrison fall? When will that soft, biting flesh of the big bird smash it's way back into my life.

But so far, I've quit cold turkey.

My dad is really proud of this one. It's the only joke he's ever told that's been funny enough to make somebody laugh so hard that they spit out of their nose. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for this joke, so let me give you some context first:

He's been in a motorcycle accident (hit and run by an illegal immigrant), and had to have most of his vertebrae fused. They use titanium rods to hold your back from bending, so as you can imagine its kind of a major operation. His doctor prescribed a year (or longer if needed) of massage therapy, which he was thankful for. Twice a week he went in to a small clinic for a few hours at a time, and usually had the same masseuse. Let's call her Marge.

After four months of therapy they of course got to know each other very well. He was always faithful to my mother, but he was good friends with Marge. Their conversations range all the way from baseball to differentials, and everything stays platonic.

Here's where the story begins:

During a massage, they are having an energetic conversation, the time comes where he turns onto his back so that she can get to his knee ligaments (chainsawed his kneecap a few years prior, doc said may as well get there too). She goes at it like normal, and the conversation continues. Now here comes the part that made my dad wait to tell me this until recently: The "stimulation" in his knee for some reason, on that day out of all others, triggered a reflexive erection. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

The conversation goes quiet. Marge notices, but doesn't say a word. She remains professional. She continues working. My dad is more embarrassed than he's ever been. Several minutes of silence pass, and my dad cant take it anymore.

"Marge," he says, "I think we need to talk about the elephant in the room."

He raises his head to look down the table at her. He glances at it, then back to her. With a slight shake of his head he says:

"Wait nevermind, it's only his trunk"

My brother was late home yesterday, and he lied about why he was late. My mother found out the real reason he was late from his friend.

Apparantly, he'd gone on the bus with his girlfriend Lindsay May to her house.

When my mother was retelling this story just now, my uncle, who is a dad, just said "I guess he was hoping Lindsay Will."

My brother inhaled half his coke.

I have written this book to sweep away all misunderstandings about the crafty art of punnery and to convince you that the pun is well worth celebrating.... After all, the pun is mightier than the sword, and these days you are much more likely to run into a pun than into a sword. [A pun is a witticism involving the playful use of a word in different senses, or of words which differ in meaning but sound alike.]

Scoffing at puns seems to be a conditioned reflex, and through the centuries a steady barrage of libel and slander has been aimed at the practice of punning. Nearly three hundred years ago John Dennis sneered, “A pun is the lowest form of wit,” a charge that has been butted and rebutted by a mighty line of pundits and punheads.

Henry Erskine, for example, has protested that if a pun is the lowest form of wit, “It is, therefore, the foundation of all wit.” Oscar Levant has added a tag line: “A pun is the lowest form of humor—when you don’t think of it first.” John Crosbie and Bob Davies have responded to Dennis with hot, cross puns: “...If someone complains that punning is the lowest form of humor you can tell them that poetry is verse.”

Samuel Johnson, the eighteenth century self-appointed custodian of the English language, once thundered, “To trifle with the vocabulary which is the vehicle of social intercourse is to tamper with the currency of human intelligence. He who would violate the sanctities of his mother tongue would invade the recesses of the national till without remorse... ”

Joseph Addison pronounced that the seeds of punning are in the minds of all men, and tho’ they may be subdued by reason, reflection, and good sense, they will be very apt to shoot up in the greatest genius, that which is not broken and cultivated by the rules of art.

Far from being invertebrate, the inveterate punster is a brave entertainer. He or she loves to create a three-ring circus of words: words clowning, words teetering on tightropes, words swinging from tent tops, words thrusting their head into the mouths of lions. Punnery can be highly entertaining, but it is always a risky business. The humor can fall on its face, it can lose its balance and plunge into the sawdust, or it can be decapitated by the snapping shut of jaws. While circus performers often receive laughter or applause for their efforts, punsters often draw an obligatory groan for theirs. But the fact that most people groan at, rather than laugh at, puns doesn’t mean that the punnery isn’t fu

As we are having some delicious spaghetti, my mother says she may never poop again after making fun of a laxative commercial. My dad says "oh your so full of shit".

I posted a picture on Facebook of my grandmother wearing a fantastic hat from when she was my age. My family is Swedish, the word for grandmother (mother's mother) is Mor Mor. He commented on one picture thusly:

Dad: I will be posting a collection/selection of your Mor Mor (not your Mor Mor Mor) but actually some may contain both your Mor Mor and Mor Mor Mor who is you mother's Mor Mor. But you knew that.

(Then correcting his omission)

Dad: I meant to indicate it would be a hat based collection but got mor than confused.

Bonus points for attempting to learn Facebook, dad.