Pass the Puns, Please
I don't have toddlers anymore. I did my time, paid my dues. I have even signed up for that adventure again. I should be able to sleep till at least nine in the morning by now. Aren't older children suppose to want to sleep in? So why must my darling children wake me up at the crack of dawn to the lyrical goodness that is Shania Twain and the tinkling sounds of the two of them cackling like little hyenas? Shouldn't they be quiet and thoughtful, appreciating the fact their mother is trying to get her beauty sleep after a long night of watching corny romances on the tube?
Shania Freaking Twain at seven thirty in the morning. God must really be annoyed with me.
And then there is my dog. My lovely Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. Who has decided that come the first ray of light in the morning sky, I should get up and play with him. He refuses to leave my side. Even if I boot him off the bed, he just jumps back on. He is so loyal. Bugger. If I take too long to rouse my sorry ass, he just attacks my feet or my hands, or my face, in that playful, stinky dog breath way of his.
He'd make a nice rug.
Before I serve this week's cheese, and be warned, it is fairly malodorous, (which, as you know tends to be the best kind) I would like to shout out a special thanks to a couple of very punny people. I had to do it. It was too easy.
Thank you, dear brother in law, a.k.a The Great White Hunter, for the five minute long message you left me on my voice mail, reading me once stinker after another. I love cheese, even the kind left on my answering machine.
And a big cheesy hug for my bloggy buddy Gette who shared a sample of her family's personal recipes for stinky fromage. I thank you from the bottom of my cheese-loving heart.
My inbox is always open to a good pun. You won't hear me complaining about having a pun in the oven...O.k, that was awful. I'll admit it. If you can do better, or have some puns you would like to smear across the net, email me. I'm easy that way. (And in other ways too, my hubs will tell you...)
On to this week's serving. It's a hum-dinger. So plug your nose and enjoy!
A debt collector knocked on the door of a country family, that made their living weaving cloth.
"Is Jack home?" he asked the woman who answered the door.
"Im sorry," the woman replied. "Jack's gone for cotton."
A few weeks later the collector tried again. "Is Jack here today?"
Once again the answer was "No, sir, I'm afraid he has gone for cotton."
When he returned for the third time and Jack was still nowhere to be seen, he complained, "I suppose Jack is gone for cotton again?"
"No," the woman answered solemnly, "Jack died yesterday."
Suspicious that he was being avoided, the collector decided to wait a week and investigate the cemetery himself. But sure enough, there was poor Jack's tombstone, with this inscription: ...
"Gone, But Not for Cotton."
Shania Freaking Twain at seven thirty in the morning. God must really be annoyed with me.
And then there is my dog. My lovely Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. Who has decided that come the first ray of light in the morning sky, I should get up and play with him. He refuses to leave my side. Even if I boot him off the bed, he just jumps back on. He is so loyal. Bugger. If I take too long to rouse my sorry ass, he just attacks my feet or my hands, or my face, in that playful, stinky dog breath way of his.
He'd make a nice rug.
Before I serve this week's cheese, and be warned, it is fairly malodorous, (which, as you know tends to be the best kind) I would like to shout out a special thanks to a couple of very punny people. I had to do it. It was too easy.
Thank you, dear brother in law, a.k.a The Great White Hunter, for the five minute long message you left me on my voice mail, reading me once stinker after another. I love cheese, even the kind left on my answering machine.
And a big cheesy hug for my bloggy buddy Gette who shared a sample of her family's personal recipes for stinky fromage. I thank you from the bottom of my cheese-loving heart.
My inbox is always open to a good pun. You won't hear me complaining about having a pun in the oven...O.k, that was awful. I'll admit it. If you can do better, or have some puns you would like to smear across the net, email me. I'm easy that way. (And in other ways too, my hubs will tell you...)
On to this week's serving. It's a hum-dinger. So plug your nose and enjoy!
A debt collector knocked on the door of a country family, that made their living weaving cloth.
"Is Jack home?" he asked the woman who answered the door.
"Im sorry," the woman replied. "Jack's gone for cotton."
A few weeks later the collector tried again. "Is Jack here today?"
Once again the answer was "No, sir, I'm afraid he has gone for cotton."
When he returned for the third time and Jack was still nowhere to be seen, he complained, "I suppose Jack is gone for cotton again?"
"No," the woman answered solemnly, "Jack died yesterday."
Suspicious that he was being avoided, the collector decided to wait a week and investigate the cemetery himself. But sure enough, there was poor Jack's tombstone, with this inscription: ...
"Gone, But Not for Cotton."
posted by Redneck Mommy at 9:01 a.m.
11 Comments:
Groan!!!
Love the comment that your dog would make a good rug, though! LOL
Shania Twain is painful at any time of day!
I'm a big fan of the pun too.
Shania isn't so bad. She's really the only good singer to come out of Canada that I can recall.
This cheese my friend, I liked. This was a good one if I do say so myself.
You need to get your ass up anyways, you have a mouse to feed.
All the former action movie stars now want to take on serious movie roles. Stallone is starting out by playing Mozart. Bruce Willis heard about this so he's going to play the part of Wagner. Arnold said he'd take a break from being our governor when he said, "I'll be Bach!"
I'd say you did something to piss God off if he's offering up Shania Twain that early in the morning!
Nice one.
Carrie
"Gone but not for Cotten." Don't you and the kiddies have oil shale rock to collect during the daily 5 hours of sunlight you get up there?
I mean this, is this where we are now: "Gone but not for Cotten." I hope this is the final ledge at the end of this hellish abyss.
G'day R'nick Mum...tell the kids not to play with matches with all that oil all over them.
The King, Your King,
Shocka Khan
agg, arrrrg, clutching stomach in pain (all signs you have delivered a nice whiffy pun!)
I dunno about Shania Twain as an alarm clock... it doesn't sound cheery enough.
I tell you what - I could phone you each evening when I'm heading for bed (which would be about 6:30am your time), and yell, "Up and at'em, T!". Yes?
Don't you know the rules yet? It doesn't matter if you stayed up all night (which I have done on many occasions). When you have kids, dogs, and other animals in the house (mouse?), you are REQUIRED to get up at the crack of dawn, not necessarily to take care of them, but just to be there in case they NEED something. That's what Nixon has been trying to tell you.
Excuse me while I go blow my nose. I just caught a whiff of something that smelled really, really awful. I think it smells like dead cheese, or something equally disgusting. Cotton, schmotton, I think you should have gotten a better pun to serve us, your loyal fans.
L. xxooxx
I get Shakira AND Shania. AND my cat meows at 7am.
have you read the book "Who moved my cheese" or something like that its a classic title and your cheese comment brought it all back, but not up!!
I have a cat that would make a nice rug too!
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