Thursday, October 23rd - Puns

There is a place in dirty slums of the city, where you can't quite tell if that smell is from the open sewer drains or the people sitting next to you at the bus stop. But this is no ordinary bus stop, the bus lines that traveled through here have been gone for some time indeed. You are searching for the mysterious underground competition that only the most hardcore of street-dwellers know the location of. But there is a way to enter with the help of an inside source, and this bus stop is the meeting place. You wait, and then suddenly a black hostage bag is placed over your head and you are taken and thrown into a van as it speeds away. You cannot see, but you feel the van descending an incline, stopping, and you hear the driver give a password to someone. You hear the sound of concrete moving along concrete. You ask yourself: Am I in the parking garage on 5th? The van moves on and stops, and you are thrown out onto the ground and the blind is removed. You look back just in time to see the large concrete wall slide back into place, a hidden door. You get up and dust yourself off, then look at the new place you have arrived in. A large stage and a gallery where hundreds of screaming fans cheered for the men on stage. Blue, green, and yellow laser lights and strobes illuminated the room a frenzy of colors. The men on stage were battling with mics, one dressed as a dapper gentleman and the other a mad scientist. The scientist opened with his first line.

So I'm reading this book on anti-gravity, it's impossible to put down.

The crowd roared and cheered at this declarative showcase of wit. The dapper gentleman took his mic of the stand and made his way across the stage to make his retort.

Whats the difference between a dapper on a bicycle and a poorly dressed man on a unicycle? A tire.

This continued on and on, and you recognized the men on stage. They were two of the best punmen in the world, battling right here in the underground Pun Pit. The scientist was thrown off the stage and you are ushered onto the stage. You pick up the mic, and see the sea of people cheeering. You look up and see a large throne in a balcony over the crowd and immediately know who it is. The rather rotund man in the throne is none other than Attila The Pun, the most undisputed master of puns to ever exist. This underground tournament is to select a successor. You start out, and are not nervous because your stage name proceeds you. You declare into the mic that you are Brosideon, King of the Brocean, eater of Brotato chips, listener of Brohemean Rhapsody, conquerer of Broseph Stalin, part time Brodeo clown, ancestor to Han Brolo space pilot, and descendant of A-bro-ham Lincoln. The crowd falls silent, and Attila the Pun gives a slight nod. You are carried away by the crowd, who no longer cheer but "ohm" in a religious manner. You are taken to the balcony where Attila The Pun personally hands you his crown and steps down into retirement. You seat yourself in the throne, take the scepter and look down to your people.

"Let the games brommence."