Under The Table Puns

So nobody sees that you are drinking them? I asked

...in a lesson (I'm a teacher) and a kid at the front asks me:

"Sir, why is John on the floor?"

look over at John, lean in and put on my most helpful voice

"Oh, that's called gravity"

Walk away victorious.

(closure: he was getting something out of his bag)

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

It was a brisk Saturday morning when Gerald arrived at “The Café,” a hip coffee shop right down the street. Wearing his large, burly black coat, he stared hesitantly at his watch. Thick glasses adorned his bright blue eyes, his gaze like starlight in a clear night sky. He was waiting, intently twiddling his thumbs. After a buzz of his phone, the message from Dad popped up: “Parking now, be there in 5.”

“Dad,” he whispered under his breath, swiping the message away to once again reveal the image on his lock-screen: a hazy picture of an ultrasound.

Gerald had not spoken to his father for three years. They had had a falling out, over which he did not remember. To him it was a competition of who could wait the longest without calling or sending a text. Who could wait the longest: him without a father, or his father without a son? The idea of friction in the relationship hurt like a thorn; piercing his soul more and more everyday. Until recently, out of the blue, “Dad” popped up on his phone. The rest is history. The rest leads to that Saturday morning, at The Café.

Bang! A car door rang out not too far from where Gerald stood. Gerald saw him. His father wore his tweed jacket like a coat of armor. His strut was now weaker than before they stopped talking; a weakness evident in his cane which supported every right step. His shortly trimmed white beard juxtaposed against his uncut, curly grey hair gave him the image of a wise wizard from a fairytale. He used to be that figure to Gerald, yet instead of a nice ancient being acting like a stone to keep him grounded, Gerald had felt as though his father was a rock pulling him deeper and deeper into a sea of monotony. Holding him back from his true potential. Maybe that was why he left? He still did not know.

“Hello, son,” came the withered voice Gerald had sook for so long, yet now that it had arrived wanted to avoid. “I can’t believe it’s been so long!”

“Yeah,” said Gerald, allowing a smile to grace his face. “Too long!”

Then they hugged, signifying a change in their relationship. Gerald had hoped something could happen to bring them closer together. He did not want to go on wondering what could have been. The regret and sadness weighed him down. Before starting a new family, Gerald wanted to be reacquainted with his own.

After finding their table and sitting down, the two began to discuss life. It was like old friends catching up after a long break. Although it took some time, Gerald began to warm u

... ‘Solo’ would win Hans down.

(I’m sure that’s been done before but it’s new to me. Sorry if that’s the case! Meanwhile I am trying to come up with a version about who shot first - Han or Greedo - but Solo had one Han up and the other under the table, so not both Hans and not really “down” either. Shucks)

The would-be mentor insisted on going to a seafood restaurant and then he ordered his favorite meal for the both of them. When the hard working, fresh-out-of-journalism-school grad asked the veteran newshound how he always managed to get witty phrases from the Prime Ministers and Presidents he interviewed, a sly smile swam across his face.

Intrigued, she watched intently while he reached for his wallet then removed a €5 note. Holding it toward her face over the table, she was surprised when the greying beat writer dropped the money directly on her uneaten dinner and held an index finger to his closed lips.

As they both looked down at the seafood platter, his paper Euro was suddenly sucked under the rings of fried calamari until it disappeared from sight. After what sounded like a stand-up comedian clearing his throat, a male voice with an Eastern European accent clearly rose out of her food. It said, "Trump asked for dirt on Biden so I sent him some good Ukrainian topsoil."

As the gobsmacked gal with mouth agape slowly raised her eyes to her grinning dinner guest's face, he shrugged his shoulders and said, "squid pro quote".

Required Explanation: "squid pro quote" is a play on words for the saying "quid pro quo", a Latin phrase meaning "something for something". In the news at the time of this posting a tremendous amount of discussion is being circulated about whether or not US president Trump dangled a quid pro quo offer in front of Ukraine's newly elected president, Volodymyr Zelensky. The deal had nothing to do with seafood however, so that was just a red herring. It should also be noted that Mr. Zelensky, before diving into politics, was a stand-up comedian.

My family/town has socially alienated me for my sexuality. This has lead to quite a couple of problems, as you could imagine.

I've been behind on my taxes for quite a bit and it was only a matter of time before the government found out. They've been having a field day confiscating all my belongings.

That leaves me on the street.

I make enough money panhandling and doing under the table stuff to get me food every day and even enough to pay for an unlimited data plan, which I'm using to write this.

I need support. I can't continue on like this.

Life's not easy.

Especially if you're a homelessexual like me.

twice today he impressed me.

first were out for lunch and hes kicking me under the table. me: "stop dude, that hurts!" him: "not to me."

then were at a store where they were they currently have a reading incentive program "...read at least 8 of the following titles and receive a free book" him: "so, can i get my free book now?" me: "what? no." him: "but i read all the titles..."

i bought him a book for his efforts.

He can’t work until he gets his permanent residency.

My wife said, “maybe he could move pianos for cash, under the table.”

Her dad said, “it’s hard enough moving pianos, hows he going to move them under a table?”

There was a spread of meats and salads for dinner, and above the table was a light that was flickering - giving off a strobe effect.

To which the person behind me casually remarks under his breath; “Hmm, don’t mind me a bit of seizure salad”.

I thought it was great. No one else seemed to appreciate it.

A Jelly Baby walks into a bar and starts talking to a Smartie. After a few beers the Smartie says "Ere, a bunch of us are heading to that new club, fancy tagging along?" The Jelly Baby says "No mate, I'm a soft centre, I always end up getting my head kicked in. "So?" Smartie says. "Don't worry about it, I'm a bit of a hard case, I'll look after you." Jelly Baby thinks about it for a minute and says "Fair enough, as long as you'll look after me", and off they go. After a few beers in the club, three Lockets walk in. As soon as he sees them, Smartie hides under the table. The Lockets take one look at jelly Baby and start kicking him, breaking cola bottles over his little jelly head, hitting him with little sugary chairs, and generally having a laugh. After a while they get bored and walk out. Jelly Baby pulls his battered Jelly Baby body over to the table and wipes up his Jelly Baby blood. He turns to Smartie and says "I thought you were going to look after me?" "I was!" says Smartie, "But those Lockets are fucking menthol".

My wife and I ate at red lobster last night after our marriage ceremony (we're having a reception in a few weeks when all of our family and friends are actually available).

Well, my wife accidentally choked on whatever she was eating.

After she got done coughing..

> Me: Are you alright?

> Her: Yes. Fine! It just scared me. I'll be back. I'm going to run to the restroom.

> Me: Okey-Dokey-Arti-Chokey!

> Her: groans and rolls eyes

I was confused until she got a few steps away and then I said under my breath

> Me: "heh.. Arti-chokey"

I laughed silently to myself and reminded her of what I said when she got back to the table.

We're getting seated outdoors. It's hot and in AZ so there are misters (mist sprayers) everywhere.

Waitress: I can put you at a table under one of the misters...
Dad: Do you have one under a Mrs?

she didn't even chuckle...

My 2 year old son implored my father in law to join him under the table while the rest of us finished our meal. My wife said, "wow, it isn't every day you see a chemistry PhD crawling around under the table."

To which he responded "chemists have been known to periodically go under the table".

My wife was playing Pokemon Go while we were waiting for our food. She looked at me and said, "There's a unique Pokemon here." (I know those don't exist) and I say, "You know how you catch a unique Pokemon, don't you?" She said, "No, how?" I reply, "Unique up on them." Then she kicks me under the table.

So we're on our way back from getting lunch and the girl coworker that was driving said she may have forgotten to put deodorant on in the morning. There was a bottle of 'Secret' brand deodorant in her car that she grabbed before heading back into the office.

Later on at the lunch table, we were talking about rumors and secrets.

She said "there are secrets everywhere!"

I said "Not under your arms there isn't!"

We all chuckled.

He went around collecting urine from taverns all around until he had huge vats of it. He boiled it down to try and get the gold from out of the liquid. When he has it all boiled away, he looks at what he has and realizes it isn't gold, but instead what we now know as phosphorus.

That's why phosphorus is on the periodic table under "P."

A story my dad just told me.

Mom: I need to stop; I am overeating.

Dad: Then let's sit under the table, we'll be undereating.

Mike Rowe on meeting Robin Williams the first time:

The first was in 2006 - June or maybe July. I walked into The Roastery down on Chestnut, ordered a coffee, and sat down to read the paper. I soon discovered I was in one of those chairs with one leg shorter than the rest, and resolved to remedy the problem by jamming a folded-up coaster under the offending limb. I bent down, got the thing positioned properly, and managed to smack my head on the edge of the table on the way back up. Hard. The impact was noisy, and sent coffee slushing all over The Chronicle, which in turn lead to an “Ahh...shit!,” a little louder than I intended. A second later, a voice said, “No, I believe that’s coffee. Shit’s the stuff I see you crawling through every time I turn on the TV.”

source

We use these red sliding sheets to help transfer patients from the operating table to their trolley (they're widely used in hospitals and care environments for various patient manual handling tasks). For those who are unfamiliar, it's basically a double layered, frictionless sheet you position under the patient in order (theoretically) to transfer them with minimal force and effort.

One particular colleague hates them, and today ranted:

"I would love to punch the guy who invented these and has probably made millions of pounds and retired"

To which someone immediately responded:

"I bet he's a right slippery character though".

When I was at my fifth grade invention convention, my fried José brought his younger brother, who immediately started climbing under the folding tables. I told my dad, "Theres this kid under the tables!" He then replies "What's he look like?" I said, "Well he's José's brother so he's hispanic" My dad thinks for a moment, and then, with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face says "Hispanic kids crawling the tables? I think we're a little north of the border for that"

We were all sat down looking at the menu, when I announced "Did you know that this place is C.S. Lewis themed?"

Cue puzzled looks around the table.

"Yeah, it's like most Indian restaurants, only it's a bit naanier!"

Groans, facepalms and my wife going "oh TisteSimeon" under her breath. While I sit there and grin.