Riding Shotgun Puns

And bragging to all my friends that I am a Mail Escort.

Son: "What? Yes, totally!"

Dad (turns to look at mother tenderly): "I think she's a lovely and beautiful woman, a good wife to me, and a good mother to you."

Son: sigh.

Your handbrake. (I could almost see the irritating smoke coming from her nostrils.)

My dad was riding shotgun while my brother was making repeated futile attempts to pull his Suburban into a narrow parking space. Dad turned around to me, looked me in the eye and deadpanned, "He's got parking son's disease".

I'll never forget when I was riding shotgun while my dad drove, and we were taking my friend Joe home. We had driven these streets hundreds of times, but at this moment, my dad released all these heretofore unheard-of puns.

We took a right on Cambridge Ave.

Dad looks over and stoically says in a gravelly voice with an -- American Indian?? -- accent, "First came iron horse… then came bridge."

Groans.

As we approach Minot Ln., he asks "do I turn here?" and Joe says "yes," to which dad replies "I don't know, Joe, I might, but I minot!"

Groans.

Finally, we make our last turn onto Cheyenne. Dad says with a deliberate, measured cadence, "You know, growing up, all the girls I met were so forward. It was weird. But then I met Shy Anne."

He finished his sentence right as we pulled into Joe's driveway. He put his right hand on the back of my headrest and turned to face us with a wide smile and the glittering, eyes of a puppy that just fetched on command.

Joe said "Thanks, Mr. Smith," and he got out and ran into his house.