There's No Getting Away From It . . . Loftus Puns from 2012 and 2013

As I wrote here on Friday, we could all probably use a good chuckle these days. Too bad there are none to be found here. Below is the crop of verbal foolishness that turned up on my Facebook page seven and eight years ago. I should have quit while I was behind. . . . 

2012

Jan. 21:  We were served most of our meal by a waitress, but a man brought my wife her cup of Earl Grey, so I figured he must be the Maître tea.

May 4:  So I was thinking of staging an adaptation of “Angels in America” set in a Tibetan monastery headed by a tyrannical Buddhist monk who secretly has AIDS, by the name of Roy Koan. . . . 

Aug. 4:  Idea for invention: mobile street lamps for gated communities which can be automatically reconfigured to highlight a given property or set of lots for potential sale or block party purposes. It would be known as Tract Lighting.

Sept. 8:  Breaking News . . . Vanna White’s publicist confirmed that the longtime letter-flipper was hospitalized today for Irritable Vowel Syndrome.

Nov. 17:  The secret of the new dessert chef’s success was that he mixed multiple sugars into his creations. He was, in fact, ambi-dextrose.

Nov. 17:  I heard something on the news about Spain having difficulties with Bosc separatists. I don’t understand; does that mean all the au pears went on strike?

Dec. 10:  Did you hear about the Jewish couple who left their kids alone at home to make potato pancakes by themselves?
That’s right . . . they were latt key children.

Dec. 11:  Beethoven’s agent really wanted to release that little piece his client had been working on as a single for the holidays, something he called “Für Elise, Navidad.” But Ludwig was adamant: “NOT for release, Navidad.”

Dec. 23:  In adjudicating capital cases, you have to remember to put the court before the hearse.

Dec. 23:  It was a rough year for Jeff. Falling tree limbs, heavy snowfall, wind and lightning storms — all repeatedly damaged his roof and forced him to shell out for repairs. It got so he hated even to open his incoming mail: It was nothing but shingle bills, shingle bills, shingles all the way.

2013

Jan. 5:  “Holmes! How did you deduce the solution from what the killer ate that night?”
“Alimentary, my dear Watson.”

May 4:  I’ll have a cinco, please; hold the mayo.

May 5:  Spent the morning on my knees and derrière, scraping the peeling paint off a tiled walkway. I feel like Oscar the Grout.

May 5:  How come only young men park cars for visitors to hotels in downtown Portland? Is it only in California that they’ve heard of valet girls?

May 6:  It dawned on me that the main sanctuary of the cathedral was inexplicably filled with male deer. Yes, in fact, it was a nave of harts.

Aug. 4:  I almost went out in a plain white T-shirt . . . which would have made me one of the Walking Un-Dyed.

Sept. 5:  Over dinner last night, Carole related the unpleasant GI tract experience she had had after eating a certain oily tropical ocean fish. I remarked when the results are fatal, that’s known as a “Pablo Escolar.”

Oct. 14:  During this evening’s rehearsal, the director asked the sheep puppets to group downstage right at the climax of the scene. I had to ask: “Would that be a clusterflock?”

Dec. 9:  As the redcoats might have put it in Boston in 1770, it’s beginning to look a lot like Crispus.

Dec. 25:  At the party, I had one glass of scotch before dinner, but thereafter I drank nothing but a series of cups of Spanish pinot noir cava. I guess that made me something of a Brut.


Haven’t had enough?

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