“Boy, I’ll tell ya,” said Blaze Cashew, laughing. He was standing at the office coffee urn regaling the morning regulars with a bit of bon mot. “I was never afraid of the dark until I saw my electricity bill! Pardon the pun!”
All the sycophants chuckled and clucked… everyone except Junior Marketing Analyst Grind Maxwell. “That’s not a pun,” he said.
The air in the room blew out. Everyone blinked and looked at Grind.
“What’s that?” said Blaze, blowing on his coffee. Everyone blinked and looked at Blaze. He was trying to be nonchalant, but the colour flushing in his cheeks told other tales.
“A pun is a joke that exploits the different possible meanings of a word or the fact that there are words which sound alike but have different meanings,” said Grind.
Everyone blinked and looked at Grind. Since they’d last blinked and looked at him, the blinkers now saw Blaze’s armpits were ponds of perspiration, and his hair was matted against his brow.
“Pfft.” said Blaze. His lip sweat sprayed the closest blinker – a germophobe – left the room immediately and hung himself.
“What does Porky write with?” asked Grind. Nobody replied, and Blaze did his level best not to pee during the pregnant pause. “A pig pen!” he said. “See? That’s a pun.”
The blinkers were aghast.
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“So,” said Blaze. “You challenge me?”
“I do,” said Grind.
“If what you say is true,” he said. “Your name is a pun. Grind. Maxwell… coffee… grind? Or didn’t you know that already, you’re so smart?”
It was an obvious, awful pun… but it was a pun. Grind bowed his head in defeat. The blinkers slowly walked away.
The rites of succession at Fennington, Putrid & Dungaree were very clear. Grind was flown to the Arctic Circle within the hour, where he was set adrift on an ice floe wearing only a kilt and a tiara.
If he made it back by Monday, he could have his job back.
