Pass the Puns, Please
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."