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A list of puns related to "Top (song)"
but stranger things have happened.
actually it was more of a wrap.
I call it my trail mix
The punch line
Top urner
Pig plays the drums, Horse sings, and Cow plays the guitar. They’re all exceptionally talented, and form a band, supplementing other spots from around the city. They play local dives, some free shows in the park, and they begin to get some traction. Pig suggests they record an album, and they send demos all over. One label is willing to give them a shot, and they open for a B List name on their tour. During the tour, they amass millions of fans, and by the time they record their first major studio album, they have a following so big that 3 of their songs top the charts. They soon find themselves headlining their own tour, as well as every major music festival.
The three friends are over the moon with their success. Never in their wildest dreams did they believe they’d find themselves rubbing shoulders with music greats. It doesn’t come without its downsides, though. Pig has turned to coke and pills to help him get through the long nights. Horse loves the party side of his new life, and his band mates often hide bottles from him when they’re not dragging him, drunk, to his bed. Cow is sad. Watching his friends fall apart, he misses being home and when things were more simple. Keeping his friends in line and covering for them is taking a toll on his own health.
After a year and a half on the road, the band is in the studio attempting to record their second album. Horse is fast asleep, drooling on the mixing board, hungover from the night before. Pig hasn’t even shown up. Cow has a breakdown, and shakes Horse awake. “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.” Horse waves him off, and falls back asleep. Cow packs up his guitar and buys a one-way ticket home.
A few days later, Pig is all over the news. He’s in jail for possession. Cow watches the news and shakes his head. He knew it was a sinking ship. Horse hears the news from their manager, who is also calling to tell him that he quit. He wakes up to the phone call, and texts Cow, pleading to have a conversation. Radio silence. Horse stumbles out of bed and heads for his favorite pub. He can’t believe that he’s down two friends, that the band has split up, and his life is in shambles. He sits at the bar. “I’ll have my usual,” he says. The bartender leans over to hand Horse a whiskey. “Hey buddy, why the long face?”
So Pigeon Forge, Tennessee (US), is a HUGE tourist trap. We’re talking zip lines, roller coasters, Ripley’s Believe it or Not museum, Ferris wheels, life sized King Kong, etc. Anywhoo, I was driving the family through this insanity when my wife pointed out a building to the kids and said “look at that one with all the giraffes on top! I wonder what that is!” Without missing a beat I said, “Welcome, to Giraffic Park!” And hummed the theme song while navigating through a left hand turn. I was proud and laughed out loud at my own joke. My 7 year old loved it.
They'd traded jokes, played pop music, and generally made people's lives a touch brighter as they trundled to work.
Now, though, there was silence on the air. Ernie silently reread the fax message from the Department of Defense. As licensed broadcasters they were legally obligated to alert the public, to tell them the nukes were flying and that in a few minutes all the world's troubles would be over. What, though, was the point of that? To torture people with the knowledge of something they couldn't change?
Their eyes met and a decision was reached. Bert put on their most requested song, a sugary top 40 tune while Ernie produced a bottle of bourbon from under the desk. As their producer banged on the locked studio door the colleagues toasted the end of a long career.
Bert, always the consummate professional, turned away from the window as the first explosion split the distant horizon. He straightened his tie, tucked in his shirt, and brushed his hair back. He would meet his fiery death with dignity.
He turned to Ernie and said in a quiet, resigned voice, "How do I look, Ernie?"
Ernie walked slowly over to his friend. He looked into Bert's face and saw the closeness they shared, the strength of their relationship, forged over the years. He took a deep breath and spoke quietly:
"With your eyes, Bert."
I said maybe
I will now take suggestions on how to be more sensitive to deaf people. I'm all ears!
My dad used to play a game with me and my brother that was, in effect, an extended dad joke.
The "beginner" version, when I was younger, was when I would be talking about something, my dad would intentionally misinterpret it so that we could correct him. The objective being to keep up the misinterpretation in as long of a chain as possible.
Me: "Dad! Top Gun is on TV!"
Dad: "Doesn't that movie have that whiny folk singer on the radio in it?"
Me: "...No, dad, that's Tom Petty, not Tom Cruise."
Dad: "Oh, I thought he was Rosanne Barr's husband?"
Me: "No, dad, that's Tom Arnold, not Tom Petty."
Dad: "Oh. I thought he was that golfer..."
Later, once I figured it out, we moved to "advanced mode", where we skip the "correction" and just prove that you catch the reference by making another error in response.
Dad: "Oh. I thought he was that golfer..." (Arnold Palmer)
Me: "...wait, I thought that was the victim in Twin Peaks?" (Laura Palmer)
Dad: "...no, you're thinking of the lady who was the actress in Jurassic Park." (Laura Dern)
And so on. Did anyone else's dad's do something like this? Or any current dads? I currently play a version of this with my wife where she'll put on the radio and I'll intentionally misinterpret the artist. (Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody is playing, I comment to the effect of "God, I love Styx. Such a great song.")
The the kitchen I work in, two of the cooks normally have the local Latino top 40 station on the radio. Last night, a bachata song was playing on the radio, when one of my coworkers asked one of the cooks, Omar, about it. I noticed he had a huge grin on his face. I knew something was up.
Coworker: "Hey Omar, what is this stuff on the radio?"
Omar: "It's bachata, te gustas? [do you like it?]"
Coworker: "Oh yeah guey, I love horchata."
Omar then gives my coworker the much needed groan, while I laugh my ass off.
Bert and Ernie worked together as daytime radio hosts for over twenty years. They'd traded jokes, played pop music and generally made peoples lives a touch brighter as they trundled to their workplace.
Now though, there was a silence on the air. Ernie silently reread the fax from civil defense. As licensed broadcasters, they were legally obligated to alert the public, to tell them that several nuclear missile launches had occured, and that in a few minutes all the world's troubles would be over. But what was the point in that? To torture people with the knowledge of something they couldn't change?
Ernie looked up at Bert. Their eyes met and a decision was reached. Bert put on their most requested song, a sugary top 40 tune, while Ernie produced a bottle of bourbon from under the desk. As their producer banged on the locked studio coor, the colleagues toasted the end of a long career.
Bert. always the consummate professional, turned away as the first explosion split the horizon. He straightened his tie, tucked in his shirt and brushed his hair back. He would meat his fiery death with dignity.
He turned to Ernie and said in a quiet, resigned voice, "How do I look, Ernie?"
Ernie walked slowly over to his friend. He hugged his companion, released him and studied Bert's face. He saw the closeness they shared, all the long years tying them together, and the strength of their relationship. He took a deep breath, with tears streaming down his cheeks. He spoke in a quiet, broken tone:
"With your eyes, Bert."
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