Very punny

When I worked for a living, one of my bosses was a man named Horace Stone. When he neared retirement, I hoped he would convert to Catholicism and enter the priesthood. That way, he would have been a Horace of a different collar.

There’s nothing like a really good pun.

And that was nothing like a really good pun.

There was once an Indian chief named Shortcake. When he died, his wife refused to turn his body over to the local mortuary, saying, “No need for mortician. Squaw bury Shortcake.”

In Africa, the chief of a village lived in a hut made entirely of grass. Even the ceilings were made of grass. One day the people of his village presented him with a special chief’s throne they had made. He was very proud of it but afraid that an enemy might come along and steal it, so he asked the people to hoist his throne up in the air with a rope so that it could be kept in his attic. In the middle of the night, however, it fell through the bedroom ceiling and killed him as he slept. The moral of this story is clear: People who live in grass houses shouldn’t stow thrones.

Here’s one for the mathematicians. Another Indian chief (not Shortcake) had three wives. He gave one of them a buffalo hide, one of them a cowhide, and one of them a hippopotamus hide. Soon the first wife bore him twin sons. Later, the second wife also bore him twin sons. A few months after that, the chief’s third wife gave birth to four healthy boys -- quadruplets! It is obvious that the sons of the squaw of the hippopotamus are equal to the sons of the squaws of the other two hides.

Some people say a pun is the lowest form of wit. As you have probably guessed, I disagree.

But a bun is definitely the lowest form of wheat.

I got a million of ’em.