Category Archives: paronomasia

Paronomasia (pa-ro-no-ma’-si-a): Using words that sound alike but that differ in meaning (punning).

“He had a thousand eyes—he only talked about himself. My mother wore her hair in a bun. The dough made it hard to brush. I had so many duds, the Fourth of July was a failure. The bakery ran out of dough, they had to take out a loan. She had a pair that people went wild over. She grew them herself and they hung low on her tree. I’m a real swinger. I ride my kids’ set in my back yard. Her melons were realty small. There was a drought and her melons had done poorly in the garden. The snow was piling up on his shoulders. His dandruff was out of control. The snake was the longest I ever saw. It reached all the way to the city’s main sewer line. The plumber was proud of it. One foot wasn’t enough. You needed two feet to run in the marathon. I took a stab and got her in the eye. I was at the board meeting and I was bored. He threw the rock at me. It was a DVD of Alice Cooper.”

Welcome to the wonderful wild world of punning! As you can see, I’m not very good at it. In fact, I stink. But I don’t care. Well, I do care, but not enough to be upset. I’ll save that for being audited by the IRS, diagnosed with terminal cancer, or falling down the basement stairs.

Usually, when I make a pun people look at me and say “Ewww. That is so stupid. Loser.” I usually bounce back with a biting return pun. I can’t think of one right now, but that does not matter. Why doesn’t it matter? It doesn’t matter because I’m a hyper wiper: a high- strung power forgetter. Since I can’t hold anything in my memory, I don’t care. Life’s anxieties to a large extent are about remembering. The future vexes us too, though. Worrying about what’s next is sickening. But, my hyper wiping enables me to forget there’s a future. So, with no past or future, the limits of my worry are significantly whittled down. I worry less then the lilies of the field or a person in a coma.

Some people say that worry and anxiety are functional. They can be sweet and make you happy or they can be bearers hurtful experiences and horror—a possible source of PTSD. Yes, that’s right. Who the hell wants PTSD?

So, how do you practice the art of hyper wiping? I don’t know. I’m a born hyper wiper. I know no other way. Life has been difficult in a sense. I don’t know my name. I have to wear name tags sewn on my clothing, along with my address. I am constantly lost. The police are used to taking me home. I am not sure what I do for my job. But I have a written description: “The employee will forget everything he sees or does for Terminal Plus Disposal Agency.” This is the perfect job for me. I get paid $4,000 per week. I don’t know what I’ve done. Somebody puts my pay in some bank somewhere. It’s all good. Right now, I have an envelope with cash in it right here in my hand. I don’t know where I got it from, but it’s there.

I think I am home now. The cab driver figured out where to drop me off by reading my shirt label, which I had forgotten was there. There is a man and a woman there at “home.” The man says he’s my father. The woman says she’s my mother. It’s like being reborn every day (although “day” is a concept that’s beyond me).

I have a confession to make.

This narrative is not true. “Hyper Wiper” is a bullshit concept. I made it up to cover over my mediocrity as a punster—or more clearly, my failure as a punster. It is one of those things that I desperately want to excel a like college or cleaning the kitchen. Punning is “the lowest form of wit.” I think Rodney Dangerfield said that on the Johnny Carson Show. You can grill me all you want but you’ll never burn me. Ha. Ha.

POSTSCRIPT

I have found a specialist in punning. He lives in a crashed airplane in Columbia. He offers his services for free and guarantees I’ll be a Premier Punster after two weeks staying in the plane with him. His name is “Cow Balls.” I heard about him from one of the best punsters I know—Chubby Picker.

So, I’m headed for Columbia to find my dream, and then, live it. Wish me gouda luck! It’s going to brie great! (I stole this from Picker)

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Paronomasia (pa-ro-no-ma’-si-a): Using words that sound alike but that differ in meaning (punning).

I was going toward the best time of my life. I had won the lotto—$22,000,000,000. That’s a lot of money. Small countries were lining up asking for help paying off their national debts. I told them all no. Why not ask to be annexed by a wealthy first-world country, like China or Germany?

I was headed to “Peter Punster’s Prudent Puns.” It was a school in Newton, New Jersey offering a one-year course of studies in punning, opening doors to the future as comics or pains in the ass. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be a pain in ass the or a comic. I was already a pain in the ass, so I guess I’d become a comic.

Our first day of class we were regaled by Mr. Punster’s nearly non-stop punning: “I’m addicted to brake fluid, but it’s OK because I can stop at any time; What do you call an alligator in a vest? An investigator; What did one eye say to the other? Just between you and me, something smells; I can’t stand Russian dolls. They’re so full of themselves; Why couldn’t the pony sing in the choir? He was a little horse.”

This is just a sample. I felt like yelling fraud. Every one of Mr. Punster’s puns were taken from the internet, from Will Styler’s “A Collection of Terrible Puns.” I went directly to Mr. Punster and told him what I knew. He pulled a pistol out of his desk—it was a flintlock! He told me to go stand in the corner. He asked: “What’s black and white and stands in the corner?” I said I didn’t know. He said “A naughty Panda.” Then, he pointed at his desk and asked: “Why did Arthur have a round table? So nobody could corner him!”

What the hell was going on here? He told me to shut up and not tell anybody what I had discovered, and he would let me live. I agreed to keep my mouth shut: “No word of mouth, just mouth.” Mr. Punster slapped my face and said “That sucked more than a Hoover.”

On our second day of class we made lists of potential pun words: similar words and similar-sounding words with different meanings. The first one I thought of was gun: gun an engine and a gun you shoot people with, and then court: basketball court, legal court, and courting your girlfriend. I thought of about 50 and couldn’t make a pun out of any of them. That’s when I knew I wasn’t cut out to be a punster. So, I dropped out.

At lunch assembly, I got up on stage and announced that Mr, Punster was a fraud—that he couldn’t pun his way out of a wet noodle. That did it. He pulled out his gun and took aim at me. He pulled the trigger and the flintlock made a popping sound and a lead ball rolled out of the barrel. As he tried to quiet the panicked students, I ran out of the lunchroom door, hopped on my motorcycle and went back to being a normal person.

Have you ever wanted to be something, but didn’t have the skill or ability to be it? I pulled up my pants and said to myself: “If you can’t make it, criticize it.” I decided how being a critic may be just the thing for me. I could channel my anger through other peoples’ literary efforts—offering completely unbalanced readings of their works. No positive side. I’m calling myself “Blackie Spite.” I have a blog called “Ripping You A New One.” I have 500,000 followers who revel in my tasteless bashing of everything I read.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Paronomasia (pa-ro-no-ma’-si-a): Using words that sound alike but that differ in meaning (punning).

“What did the grape say when it got crushed? Nothing, it just let out a little wine.” Ha, hah, ha. Right? I have a friend, who calls himself Carry—that’s Cary with two r’s. He is a punster. He knows more puns than there are stars in the sky. Most of them are actually funny. Some are really bad though. My favorite is: “To the guy who invented zero, thanks for nothing.” It operates on so many levels. It could’ve been coined by Pythagoras it’s so funny. I hear he had an angle on just about everything. When he. cooked, he’d hold up two tomatoes and say “Isosceles.” I couldn’t do puns to save my soul. Like I always did, I looked on the Internet for somebody to save me. I Googled “pun schools,”

I got one hit. Out of the millions and billions of possibilities, there was only one. It was called “O-Pun.” It was located in Ireland and we would conduct my learning via text message, and occasionally Zoom. I would have one-week of training for $400.00. I signed up. My first session was one week later on Zoom.

My instructor’s name was Pat and he looked pretty normal, except he wasn’t wearing any pants. His penis was gigantic—clearly in the zucchini league. He. Said, “Don’t be alarmed. We have to start somewhere.” I’m adventurous, so I decided to go with the flow.

So, Pat started our adventure: “What’s a penis’s favorite beverage? A stiff drink.”

All I could think, was how adolescent. I told Pat this was not what I was looking for. I asked for a refund. All he was was a punning exhibitionist. What a scam. I would never be a first-class punster in my own right. I guess it can’t be learned. Then, I discovered a pun commune outside Puebla, Mexico. There was no address or means of contact listed, just “outside Puebla.” I figured I could ask somebody in Puebla where the pun commune was. I bought a plane ticket to Mexico City and took a bus from there to Puebla. I got to my hotel around 2 a.m. The doorman looked at me and said: “A crazy wife says to her husband that moose are falling from the sky. The husband says, it’s reindeer.”

I was really surprised—he spoke English and he punned—it wasn’t part of a conversation, but he punned! I would talk to him in the morning.

I went to breakfast the next morning. I didn’t see the doorman. The waitress came to my table and said: “I lost my mood ring and don’t know how to feel about it.” She whisked away from my table and disappeared into the kitchen. I went looking for her, but couldn’t find her. That afternoon I found a guy who knew where the commune was. He offered to drive me there in his Jeep for $100. I agreed and off to the commune we went. I was so excited—a commune devoted to punning. We finally got there. I handed over the cash to my driver. He said: “I want to be cremated as it is my last hope for a smoking hot body.” I laughed. Everywhere I went it was pun after pun!

The commune’s Mayor came out to greet me. He was wearing a silk top hat that said “Mayor” on it. It was strange, but I wanted to get the show on the road. I said: “Ladies, if he can’t appreciate your fruit jokes,you need to let that mango.” There was a gasp. The group of people who had gathered was coming toward me snarling with angry looks on their faces. They started chanting “No more puns.” The Mayor held out his arms and subdued them and turned to me: you are the third one this week, coming here to perfect your punning. We hate punning. Punning cost us our relationships, our families, loved ones and friends. We are here to become un-punned, to free ourselves from the maddening habit that cost us all so dearly.” I said: “There was a kidnapping at school yesterday. Don’t worry, though – he woke up!” I ran for the jeep with about 20 people chasing me, yelling insults.

The doorman, the waitress and the Jeep driver had been expelled from the commune because they couldn’t stop punning. I stayed on at my hotel for a week and we made friends. Now we send “pun cards” to each other via email. It is great fun. I’m not any better at punning than I ever was. Most of my puns are stolen off the internet, every once in awhile, I come up with one on my own: “When it barked I thought the dog was a tree.” That’s about the best I can do. At least they haven’t cost me family and friends yet. I have learned that pun moderation is the key to keeping friends and family intact.

Penis pun: https://giggeli.com/blogs/news/laughing-through-the-stigma-giggelis-collection-of-penis-jokes

All other puns: https://parade.com/1024249/marynliles/funny-puns/

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.