Nate Wilson walks into a bar. The bartender knocks him down with a
punpan, then the manager kneels a punupon him, punningpinning him to the ground.
"What the hell, Dorothy? This is how you treat the guy who sent you so much business the past few weeks?"
"None of 'em paid."
"None of them? Really? Wow. Sure, I suppose that makes sense for the needle, sea-monkey, bowl of Rice Krispies, Jabba the Hutt, tuberculosis, penguin, Shakespeare, old shoe salesman, barista, barrister, barbarian, and goat, but I figured the priest and rabbi would've paid for the hooker."
"Nope. And now it's time for payback." She removes Nate's shoe and looks to the manager. "Give me your
"Someone already numbered his foot," notes the manager.1
"What?! Who did this to you?!" asks the bartender.
"I can show you. Got any copies of today's New York Times?"
"Yeah, we've got some Times; the Willison Fire Company gives us their spare."2
The bartender grabs a newspaper from behind the bar. Nate directs her to an opinion column.
"The other Nate? That yahoo!"
"Dot, calm down," says the manager.
"Stealing my revenge... I'll kill him!"
"Tell you what, I'll take the photo, shop it around and see if anyone's seen him lately. You can stay here and work on his other foot. Here, use this marker."
"Blargh. I would have preferred a
And that will do it for my 10-part series of things walking into bars. Or, counting the two initial posts that led to it, perhaps this was a 12-step program. Either way, it's over. It's been both challenging and fun, but now that I've gotten all those puns out of my system, I can get back to my novel and not worry about any errant puns derailing my train of thought.
1 Ooh, not only is this a reference to numbered footnotes (which, as you know, are not at all prevalent on this blog), but close friends may also remember my (as-of-yet-unwritten) novel in which the numbers on a newborn's foot determines how he lives his life.
2 I tried to do better than this. I really did. I just didn't try that hard.