Last Resort Puns

When I told my coworker she asked how can men run naked without wearing any support.

Of course I said, it isn't hard.

It was awl-inclusive.

Your last resort should be assisting your victim in whatever they are doing.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

He tried everything: rodents, small animals, and even cuts from larger animals, but it wouldn't eat.

As a last resort, he offered a virgin, but still the snake wouldn't eat. So, he called up the village's wise man.

Without hesitation, the wise man put two pieces of bread on the woman, and the snake ate her whole.

When Attila asked why, the wise man responded,

"Thine anaconda don't want nun unless you've got buns, hun!"

It was our last resort...

No, wait, that’s not it. She said it was her last resort.

She was looking for a vacation and I was her last resort.

It's my last resort!

Edit: changed "it was" to "it's"

It was out last resort.

Back a few decades, I was working in a program with a local college in the Middle East.

The name of the program for ExPats has the clever acronym of "IDEA" (hey, I said it was clever); which stands for "Inter-Departmental Educational Adjunct". It's interdepartmental because my particular specialty not only covers field geology but also paleontology and a bit of archeology thrown in for good measure. Everyone hopes to have a good IDEA...

ahem...

Well, we saddle up and head for the Dune Sea out in the west of the country, where the Precambrian, Cambrian, Silurian, Cretaceous, Pliocene, Pleistocene, and Holocene crop out and access is relatively easy and non-injurious.

Well, we caravan out, some 30 Land Cruisers, Nissan patrol, and the odd Mitsubishi Galloper strong. We all get our maps, compasses and split up into 5 or 6 special interest groups ("SIG's"); where each IDEA has his own GPS and LIDAR laser ranging apparatus. Reason being, that there are very few benchmarks out in the desert, and even those are constantly at the mercy of the shifting and ever-blowing sands.

Since we're split into groups and at any one time, ranging up to and including some 50 km2, when a real find is located, a device called the "DIME" (Digital-Interface Monitor Encoder) is attached and programmed into the GPS for location later; it is a digital sort of low-frequency transponder, developed from technology used by offshore drillers and jacket setters where benchmarks are even more transitory.

The way it works is rather simple. When something is to be marked for later retrieval, a series of wooden posts are pounded in a triangular manner around the find and the DIME is set, programmed with the GPS and attached to one or more of the posts.

That's the theory, at least.

Everything works well, especially all the hardened electronics and computer gizmos, but attaching the DIME to the stakes is the real problem. It can't be nailed, screwed or fastened with any sort of metal contrivance as that farkles the magnetic field and causes all sorts of goofy spurious signals. Zip ties don't last long in the heat and duct tape is right out. Many sites have been lost to the shifting sands this way.

Velcro doesn't work too well, as the sand fills the hooks of the receiving piece of velcro and soon renders it useless. String or fishing line work, but that's temporary (they melt). Glue or mastic are out as these are supposed to be temporary. Even plastic sleeves don't work due to the heat out

This is my last resort.

Once they have finished mating, the mother roach tries to find a safe place to lay her eggs while the pappa roach tries to support his new family by starting an alt/rock band.

This wasn't his first career choice, but it is his last resort.

...with a fellow Dad last weekend when we walked past what looked very much like a strip club. He was a little surprised to find such an establishment in the rather staid seaside resort we were staying in, so I explained that we were in a country with a long and respectable tradition of Pole dancing.