"Just the knees?", I asked. I'm a dad even when my daughter's not around, gotta keep my game up.
My local is called 'The Red Lion' - pretty typical for a British pub. However, the letter D had fallen off the sign above the door.
My grandfather, in true dad form: "Unlike the sign out the front, that pub you really can re lion."
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
... keep reading on reddit ➡And so the string decides that he shall stop at his favorite Pub and treat himself to a pint before going home to the wife. But after a decent walk he arrives at the pub to find a new sign on the door that reads " No Strings Allowed".
The string becomes infuriated. "How dare they" he thinks to himself. After having been a loyal patron for 10 years he decides this injustice is not to be tolerated and comes up with a plan.
He takes a moment and steps into the back alley way to be discreet. While he is there he ties himself into a knot and frays the top. Content with his disguise he marches back around to the front, enters the bar and has a seat when requests a pint of beer.
The bartender being a little suspicious looks at him a little uneasily but just can't seem to peg what the problem is. He serves him the beer regardless while keeping a close eye on the suspicious character. A little while later the string decides that the week at work has been so long that he is deserving of two pints of beer before going home to retire for the weekend.
It is just at that point when the bartender is serving him his second pint that he pauses and looks at the string and says "Hold on one minute! Aren't you a string?"
To which the string replied, "Sorry, I'm a frayed knot".
So a piece of string walks into a pub, grabs a stool at the bar when he sees a sign that says "Strings not Allowed in this Establishment". He quickly ties himself into a knot before the bartender walks up and says "Hey!, are you a string??"
"No, I'm afraid knot"
Technically a riddle not a joke but it's always amused me. My dad told me this well over 30 years ago.
"I asked you to paint a sign for my pub "The Dog And Duck" but you didn't leave enough space between "Dog" and "And" and "And" and "Duck.".
