by Alan B. Combs
Alan has been participating in several of the more serious deliberations here in alt.callahans. He decides it is time to step back and apply lubrication (or is that lugubrication?) to the punny bone.
We will all miss John Barnstead until he comes back, and when he does we will throw peanuts. I owe John, Magus, and several of the others the concept of the long story with imbedded puns and a sustained punch line. I am delighted to see that several newcomers are also willing play the game. Welcome. This is encouraged.
How to repay my debt? What better way than with another shaggy dog story (heh, heh, heh)? Alamus, vengase, mi amigo. Cacahuates vienen. [Hint: Country music]
The U.S. Marines are one of the world’s premier fighting forces. No question about it — first in, kick butt, take names, only then bring in the others. It’s the natural order of things. Just ask ’em. However, it can get boring during times of relative inaction. Practice, get ready, do nothing. Practice, get ready, do nothing, goldbrick. If a certain amount of mental stimulation is not forthcoming, then the process all too quickly becomes goldbrick, goldbrick, goldbrick. The counter measure is makework, makework, and makework with intermittent entertainment. Have the troops carry ounces, kilograms, and tons of material from one place to another and back again, and provide an occasional circus for the masses.
Entertainment measures of varying success were tried in one regiment. Word contests became the order of the day: (Ah say, there, pa’dner, what’s the name of that there rock that make all them words sound alike? It’s a rhyme stone, Cowboy.) Daily rhyming contests became quite popular for a while, but all too quickly, the rhymic challenges became too esoteric for most players. For many, the final straw concerned finding a rhyme for a story about the leather coverings for the hands of a mighty, but relatively unknown djinn of desert lore.
In addition to word games, troops with any talent at all were encouraged to participate in musical activities. The use of marijuana was not encouraged, but it was altogether too available. Thus, one semi-religous band took the name Stoning of Stephen. Other grassroots musical groups were also created. It finally came to pass that to keep them out of trouble, the members of the various groups were assigned the duty of lighting and nurturing the fire in the Regimental Torch displayed outside the sleeping compound, an arduous task, at best.
One day, the regimental command discovered that it was time to start a new and different round of diversional activities. It all came to a head in the latrine when the Commandant asked the drill instructor, a Sgt. John Laconic (a man of few words, of course), about the nature of the rhyme du jour, and which band was responsible for lighting the regimental torch that day.
John replied, “Rhyme djinn glove myth? Too gabby! Band ident? Stephen grow corps flame!”