World Publications Puns

They've got to fight the powers that bee.

European

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."

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

He followed the enchanting voice till he came upon a singing yellowfin tuna. He knew he had found something incredible. He caught the fish, kept it alive and returned home.

He showed his friends and posted videos on tik tok, and the singing fish went viral. It could sing almost anything, but Pavarotti was it's favorite.

The fisherman toured around the world with the fish and set up a website to sell merch. The clothing he made sold like crazy, so he ordered thousands of short sleeve shirts to be made in advance.

Unfortunately, the fish died, and the public lost interest. The fisherman was left with endless opera tuna tees.

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."