Stab To Death Puns

You have died of dissin' Terry.

Wife: Witherspoon? Me: No, with a knife.

They crept in. It was pitch black and stone quiet. They were suddenly starting to regret this dare. Stupidly, only one brought a flash light. The aggressive darkness and inky black yielded with grudging compliance but always seeming to push back. They moved cautiously onward amid the dust and cobwebs. The floor creaked. They breathed in tight, quick breaths. You could hear a pin drop.

Suddenly, there was a deep moan. "OOOOOOOOUUUUU". It seemed from below them. The house had been abandoned for years. Who or what could make such a sound? The boys looked at each other, but continued on, hearts pounding in their chests.

As they proceeded into the kitchen they encountered a swarm of flies. Buzzing and beating their necks and faces, they rushed and stumbled to the door, not stopping to see what they were truly feasting on. They slammed the door behind them. Maybe a body? But no way were they going back to find out. And again came the sound, "ooooOOOOOooooOOUUU" but louder this time, and closer.

They proceeded through the dark into the dining room. They saw a fully set dining table covered in cob webs. Dust-covered regal-looking glasses, goblets and silverware adorned the table. Spiders climbed on ivory plates. Clearly a house of privilege and set for a grand feast which never happened.

Or, perhaps, met a fatal end?

They pushed on. But again that unearthly howl.

"oooooOOOOOOOOOOOUuuuuUUUUuuUUOOOOooo".

They found the basement staircase, and from below, the sounds seemed to be emanating. Could they proceed? Would they? Did they dare? Two of the boys looked at each other, faces filled with worry.

But the third said, confidently, "We're going down there." Not wanting to seem the weaker, the other two boys steeled themselves and nodded.

The stairs creaked and groaned evily under their feet. The rickety banister shook in angry defiance. Insects and vermin scattered underneath them with every step. They were descending into hell, they knew, but none would turn back.

And the sound: "oOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUuuuuUUOOOO". Now loud enough to fill not only their heads but seeming to claw at their very souls!

Now at the basement door! The antique, crying squeak of the hinges eeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEee made the boys wince and almost cover their ears. But they had to know. WHAT is making that horrible, terrible sound?

"ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUoooooUUUUUUUOOOOOOO"

In the center of the basement lay an unholy coffin! A twisted artistic expression of murder, decay and

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

My friend (L) and I (B) ended up in a pun war. She had to wake up super early to catch a flight, and this was at about one in the morning:

L: I should definitely set my alarm to 'cow' o.O

B: Haha, do it. Nothing like waking up to cows in the 'moo'rning.

L: Oh my gosh. Absolutely not.

B: Hey, but it would be so 'udder'ly hilarious!

L: I just got stabbed to death by a pun.

B: I'm just trying to 'milk' it for all it's worth...

L: If I did that, I'm not sure I'd wake up in a happy 'moo'od.

B: Just drink some 'calf'inated coffee, and you'll be fine.

L: I'd be laughing 'stock' of the town... Cows don't have a sense of humor.

B: Bull!

L: I'll just use my cowculator do determine how much sleep I'm actually going to get tonight...

B: You could wake up a little later, but you'd have to 'hoof' it to the airport.

L: Hope the weather is good, so my plane isn't 'ground'ed 'beef'.

B: That's stretching it... You should make more of an 'heifer't to come up with good puns.

L: I know when I'm getting creamed.

B: It's hard to 'steer' you in the right direction, because you keep changing topics.

L: That's udderly ridiculous. I'm just trying to mooove on.

B: And I just keep churning 'em out...

L: No, you're just spinning your 'veal's.

B: That's one of the best ones I've herd all night!

L: I thought I might've butchered it...

B: PETA might have a beef with you because of it, though...

L: Well done, well done...

B: I don't think they care leather or not you personally slaughtered it, too.

L: See now, I wish you'd stop 'grilling' me about the bad puns... You should 'patty' yourself on the back. I 'dairy' you to come up with more.

B: Well, you can certainly steak a claim for being able to hold your own...

L: I'm a natural 'barn' comedian. However, I really should quit 'yak'king and go to bed. :p

B: Okay, that's not cows... You lose. You 'cud' have done a lot better.

L: The grass is greener on the other side, okay? Also, cows live in barns, and yaks are related to cows.

B: It was still quite a stretch... Don't have a cow about it.

L: Ha anymoo. Goodnight! Also, don't die of mad cow disease.