Pun Alley

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When moonshine was a way of life

By Dick Frank

On travels far away from Pun Alley I found a mountain moonshine festival to be held this weekend in Georgia’s Dawson County. It explores the history of the area during prohibition when running moonshine through the foothills of the northeast Georgia mountains was a way of life. I took a shine to it and its stories.

A real shot

A flatlander was driving down a road back in the hills when a hillbilly stepped out into the road and leveled his rifle at him.

The flatlander stopped and the hillbilly motioned him out of the car. Then he handed the rube a jug and said, “Drink it.” The man tried to refuse but the hillbilly aimed his gun at him and said, “Drink it!”

The flatlander took a swallow and collapsed on the ground choking. When he finally rose to his feet the hillbilly handed him the gun and said, “Now you hold the gun on me while I drink it.”

Cure all

“And ladies and gentlemen,” shouted the patent-medicine salesman at the county fair, “I have sold over a million bottles of this great Indian remedy, and I have never received one complaint. I ask you, what does that prove?”

Came a voice from the crowd, “That dead men tell no tales.”


One evening King Arthur’s men discovered Sir Lancelot’s moonshine whiskey operation and shattered the still of the knight.

I bought some moonshine from this Chinese guy, but when I tried it, it tasted like grass. I think I got bamboozled.

There’s a hillbilly’s wife who’s a pain in the neck, a real pill who can cause the hillbilly lots of strife. But he said that he does love her still.

During a fight, a husband threw a bowl of Jell-O at his wife. She had him arrested for carrying a congealed weapon.

The moonshiner heard that aging whiskey made it better, but he let some go an entire week and couldn’t taste any difference.

The losing racecar driver is getting a new crew chief from China hoping he would finally win on the racetrack. The crew chief name is Win-Won Soon.

Facebook ramblings

Every week when the Citizen is published I post a link on Facebook allowing my relatives to read Pun Alley online. Frequently my nephew Byron Frank, also a punster, will repost one of the column’s puns on his Facebook. When the Oktoberfest column came out several weeks ago, his comment from Pun Alley was, “OK, I’ll go to the Oktoberfest, but I expect the wurst.” This just led to a long thread as other readers put in their own two-cents. It just went from wurst to wurst.

Comment: “I never sausage a ridiculous comment. At least you’re being frank about it. (Do I get double for that one?)”

Byron: “Don’t be such a brat.”

Comment: “This is the wurst.”

Byron: “Bzzztttt... Pun fouls. The wurst one has already been used. Of course, when it comes to sausage puns, summer better than others, salami see you try again.”

Comment: “Teewurst one is yet to come I am sure.”

Comment: “Cervelat of opportunities for corny comments Andouille get a lot of Balogna.”

Byron: “Hot dog! that’s what I’m talking about.”

Comment: “Thanks! I dug deep for those. I’m tryin’ to be the Head Cheese!”

Comment: “Toulouse in a contest like this would be Abruzzo to my ego.”

Comment: “You have to be good with words; it takes some real linguica-tic skill.”

Comment: “oh yea? Well I’m an apple picker to the core.”

Dick Frank: “Enough pun-ishment!”

Comment: “Yeah... Let’s Scrapple this whole thread and Kishka it goodbye!”

Byron: “Do you want to be the person in charge of killing this thread? You can be the Kielbasi.”

Comment: “I can’t add anything else; Wifey has a honeydew list for me. So I’m off to do my Chorizo.”

Comment: “This thread proves to me that though I like sausage, I really would rather not know its contents.”

Comment: “Thanks for the fun Byron! This has been a Banger of a thread!”

Comment: “I think it needs mash.”

Byron: “It may not have been the best of threads, but don’t knockwurst!”

The end

I have to admit that as the hot dog vendor went on, about how he likes to “caress each bun with mustard” and “tease it with dabs of relish,” I was growing rather uncomfortable with his frank talk.

Dick and his wife Jane live in Oak Run.