Gulls — we call them seagulls, even though we’re a thousand miles from a sea — gathered the other day in the middle of a softball field near our lake.
Usually they fly around looking for floating minnows or pocket lint or who knows what. Gulls are part of the landscape — the birdscape — of a city lake.
They are not the notorious gulls of Ocean City, swooping to grab French fries out of the fingers of chubby little boys and girls. Authorities brought in hawks, owls and falcons to wag a warning beak and talon at those bully gulls. Without any fatalities those wayward gulls are reportedly back on their old diets of tourist food trash.
Our gulls, on the infield, we surmised, had gathered for church. Gullible, we punned.
After a laugh I vowed to repent like the Ocean City gulls and return to a no-pun policy in all things. Unfortunately, I am genetically predisposed to puns. My grandfather was a punster extraordinaire, if extraordinaire can ever be applied to such a low art, if art can ever be applied to such a… stop.
No one got more pleasure from Grandpa’s puns than himself. No one laughed more sincerely at his puns than he. But it was impossible not to laugh with him.
He was a preacher, so his puns were always clean, which made them even worse. I don’t remember a single pun of his but I do remember the laughs we had when grandpa was around.
If he were preaching at the gull church in the park, he would certainly have them in stitches. His sermon would ask big questions like why don’t seagulls fly over the bay? Because then they would be begals.
As Grandpa would say, “Har!”
(A pun walks into a bar, and ten people drop dead. Pun in, ten dead. (Send your donations to saveboomersfrompuns.org))