Release The Pun Kraken
Creative strategy #3: Cleanse yourself of the utterly unnecessary.
Hey. Wierdos. Press play and read along.
THE LAST RUN OF THE PUN TROLLEY
Who among us can resist
the charms of the Pun Trolley?
There is the familiar old
clacka clacka dip dip
of the wheels the dated
Turn of The Century Decor
The back & forth sway
we all assume as we clatter
up the hill or down
& there is that truly
blissful moment
when we reach the turntable
& exit the trolley
& briefly enter the real world
to rotate our vehicle
in a new direction
But it is really only
a return to the start
For the route of the Pun Trolley
is designed to go nowhere
We take our seats
& once again embrace the
clacka clacka dip dip
clacka clacka dip dip
which--can I be honest?--
in any other setting
would be considered sexual
But this is The Pun Trolley
Puns have no sexual organs
Puns are jokes without punch lines
Graffiti without the balls to finish
Advertising with nothing to sell
They are ubiquitous as kudzu
but as vulnerable as frost
as soon we'll see
Because today
vengeance has come
to the Pun Trolley
Take a last listen to the
clacka clacka dip dip
Take a good look
at the faux gold bunting
& the buttoned-down
red leather seats
This is the end of the line
There is a stranger onboard
A man in a trench coat
A man who learned the hard way
the secret of the pun
who has patiently repeatedly
unwrapped the fourteen levels of tissue
to arrive at that one little turd
at the bottom of the box
He doesn't say "That's awful!"
or "What terrible taste!"
Or even "You just wasted 10 seconds of my life!"
He knows the punster
needs no validation
Rejection or praise
is beside the point
The point is attention
They hold the public hostage
until they meet their demands
& then they don't release them
Don't you see?
Puns are the violence
the unfunny do
when they realize
they are not funny
They spend all their lives
poking their little puns
into the ribs of a society
too polite to call them
what they are:
Verbal Terrorists
Well today it ends
It ends right here right now
on the last run of the Pun Trolley
I rise & step into the middle of the aisle
I say: May I please have your attention?
Someone says: As long as I can have it back!
Someone else says: Ten Hut!
Someone else says: Quonset hut!
Someone else says: Attila The Hut!
Someone else says: I tilla the soil!
I do not return their smiles
I open my trench coat to unveil
the two rows of dynamite
& the ticking clock
Oh you should see their faces
As far as I am concerned
This moment could last forever
But then like distant drums I hear
clacka clacka dip dip
clacka clacka dip dip
seeps back into my fevered brain
& takes me over once again
takes me to a softer place
Its gentle rhythm soothes
the pulse of vengeance
& somehow something
in me yields & I see
I see I am not surrounded
by the faces of my victims
I am looking in a mirror
Terrorists?
Did I really call them terrorists?
This harmless horde
of word tourists?
If they are evil then
everyone is evil
& nobody can be saved
I breath & swallow this
hard knowledge
I see their childish pleading faces
I see I am not justice
& they are not sin
God have mercy on my soul!
Who I ask myself is the terrorist here?
Who?
Who has the dynamite?
Who has the timer?
Who has this touchy red trigger?
Whoops
Patrick O’Leary
