Pundemonium: Knotty Words

One of my greatest delights in being a lover of language is indulging in puns – no doubt you've noticed this by the titles of some of my earlier postings. I simply like taking a word and standing it on its head, tying it in a knot, and giving myself a private giggle (and others a public groan). For me it helps to keep the mind sharp, to riffle through a mental thesaurus and encyclopedia while someone else is in mid-syllable, and give yet another dandy dénouement.  

I swear it isn't ego, beyond the delight in making someone laugh when they weren't expecting it. Thus I rarely remember my puns, thank God. A few, though, do stick with me…  

Several years ago, my older daughter was about to go to a formal dance at her high school. Just like in the movies, she came downstairs in a lovely, beautiful silken wave that made her look like an angel. My mother, on hand for the event, took on a skeptical tone of voice. "I don't know," she said, "that looks kind of slinky…"  

Before I could stop myself, I piped up with: "Why not? After all, it IS a spring gown."  

This same daughter has zero tolerance for my puns; when she sees my face light up at one of those delicious opportunities, she immediately snaps, "Dad! Don't." And I usually desist.  

One of my coworkers – let's call him Hugo (he looks like the Hugo Drax character in the James Bond film, Moonraker) – is a hardcore numbers-cruncher. For him the world has stark borders and demarcations: everything has its place and function. He can't stand puns, because for effect they rely on the hearer's trust in a word's firmness and rigidity… a trust which I mercilessly take advantage of in twisting said firm word through a couple half-dimensions (as though pouring it out of a Klein bottle with a Möbius label) and popping it back out again. He has forbidden me from saying puns around him before lunch on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays; the ban is for all Mondays and Fridays.  

Generally he's the first person I tell a pun to. He visibly shrinks and winces; sometimes he even bellows at me to get far away from his cubicle… which I do, the rotten egg already having been proudly laid.  

Another coworker – let's name him Ben – has a good thick streak of that same affectation I fall weakly prey to; he's the only person among nearly two dozen who can usually keep up with me, and sometimes even outpun me.  

Today – noting that a lot of people around the office were sniffling and sneezing and coughing – I asked him, "Have you ever read that Steven King book, The Stand?"  

With almost no pause, he answered, "Not in one sitting."