A Scotsman named Angus painted houses for a living. Because he was a penny pincher, he often thinned down his paint with water to make it go a wee bit farther. He got away with this until the day he painted the house of Brother McTavish, who was an elder in the Presbyterian church.
Just when Angus had almost finished the job, suddenly there was a loud clap of thunder and rain began pouring down, washing all the watered-down paint from the house. Then a bolt of lightning struck the ladder where Angus was standing and knocked him to the ground.
Angus knew this was a judgment from the Almighty, and he fell to his knees and cried out, “Forgive me, Lord! What should I do?” And from the thunder came a mighty voice saying, “Repaint! Repaint! And thin no more!”
When I published Bar jokes for English majors, I had a sneaking suspicion that my faithful readers — and perhaps even a few faithless ones — would chime in with additions of their own, and they did not disappoint. They inspired me to write a few more as well. So here we go with round two:
An adverb walks into a bar purposefully, demands a bottle of whiskey urgently, consumes it single-handedly, and passes out immediately.
A homonym woks into a barre.
A flirtatious semicolon walks into a bar and winks at a colon who’s making eyes at her.
His, hers, theirs, mine, yours, and ours walk into a bar and quickly take possession.
Alliteration arrives at an authentic Alabama alehouse and asks for applejack.
A contraction walks into a bar even though it isn’t thirsty, doesn’t feel like drinking, and can’t explain why someone who’s not in the mood to drink wouldn’t avoid bars.
A spoonerism balks into a war and has a muddy blary.
An anagram walks into a bar owned by an anemic iceman from the cinema.
Redundancy walks into a bar that serves alcoholic beverages and asks for scotch on the rocks over ice cubes.
After work, before going home, a preposition walks into a bar beside the parking lot behind the office, and drinks with reckless abandon throughout the evening, ending up under the table.
An incomplete sentence into a bar
A thesaurus walks/ambles/saunters/wanders/strides/traipses into a bar.
Onomatopoeia whizzes into a bar, barks out an order, guzzles a drink, then zips out with a whoosh.
A misplaced apostrophe walk’s into a bar and drink’s a few beer’s.
Subject and verb walk into a bar, but the bartender kicks them out because they don’t agree.
An interjection walks into a bar — ouch!
A heteronym walks into a bar, even though it’s close to time for the place to close.
Bob, Eve, Hannah, Otto, Ada, Nan, Mom, and Dad walk into The Palindrome Saloon.
Alphabet. Barroom. Cocktails. Drinking. Euphoric. Fried. Giddy. Hammered. Inebriated. Juiced. Kippered. Loaded. Muddled. Narcotized. Obliviated. Pickled. Quaffy. Ravaged. Schnockered. Tanked. Unsteady. Vulcanized. Wasted.
William Shakespeare walks into a pub
In search of refreshment and levity;
He asks the bar maid for some spiked lemonade,
Having heard it increases longevity;
Then he says to the lass, “Use a very short glass,
For the soul of wit is brevity.”
A dangling participle walks into a bar. Enjoying a cocktail and chatting with the bartender, the evening passes pleasantly.
A bar was walked into by the passive voice.
An oxymoron walked into a bar, and the silence was deafening.
Two quotation marks walk into a “bar.”
A malapropism walks into a bar, looking for all intensive purposes like a wolf in cheap clothing, muttering epitaphs and casting dispersions on his magnificent other, who takes him for granite.
Hyperbole totally rips into this insane bar and absolutely destroys everything.
A question mark walks into a bar?
A non sequitur walks into a bar. In a strong wind, even turkeys can fly.
Papyrus and Comic Sans walk into a war. The bartender says, “Get out — we don’t serve your type.”
A mixed metaphor walks into a bar, seeing the handwriting on the wall but hoping to nip it in the bud.
A comma splice walks into a bar, it has a drink and then leaves.
Three intransitive verbs walk into a bar. They sit. They converse. They depart.
A synonym strolls into a tavern.
At the end of the day, a cliché walks into a bar — fresh as a daisy, cute as a button, and sharp as a tack.
A run-on sentence walks into a bar it starts flirting. With a cute little sentence fragment.
Falling slowly, softly falling, the chiasmus collapses to the bar floor.
A figure of speech literally walks into a bar and ends up getting figuratively hammered.
An allusion walks into a bar, despite the fact that alcohol is its Achilles’ heel.
The subjunctive would have walked into a bar, had it only known.
A misplaced modifier walks into a bar owned by a man with a glass eye named Ralph.
The past, present, and future walked into a bar. It was tense.
A dyslexic walks into a bra.
A verb walks into a bar, sees a beautiful noun, and suggests they conjugate. The noun declines.
An Oxford comma walks into a bar, where it spends the evening watching the television getting drunk and smoking cigars.
A simile walks into a bar, as parched as a desert.
A gerund and an infinitive walk into a bar, drinking to forget.
A hyphenated word and a non-hyphenated word walk into a bar and the bartender nearly chokes on the irony.
LONDON DAILY MIRROR, 10 November 2017
Last Monday started out like any other Monday for Patricia C. Black of Bexley. Ms. Black, 38, a loan officer at Lloyds Bank in Middlesex, was at her desk trying to get some paperwork done before a staff meeting that was scheduled for 9:00 a.m. That was when Philippe Broussard, recently arrived from France, walked into her life.
Mr. Broussard, 21, approached Ms. Black and said that he wished to apply for a business loan.
“He was a bit difficult to understand,” Ms. Black told The Mirror. “His English was broken and heavily accented.”
Ms. Black says she asked Mr. Broussard what sort of business he proposed to start, and Mr. Broussard replied that he hoped to open a gift shop. He then opened his rucksack and removed a collection of ceramic figurines, which he proceeded to line up along the edge of Ms. Black’s desk.
“He said that was what he planned to sell,” said Ms. Black. “I don’t mind telling you, I was a bit flummoxed. Chap looked a good deal too young to be starting a business, and honestly, the things he proposed to sell didn’t look like the sort of thing any bloke in his right mind would buy.”
Ms. Black asked Mr. Broussard to tell her more about himself.
“He said that he’d only recently arrived in the U.K., which came as no surprise, and that he had been unable to find a job, which also came as no surprise,” she said.
“Then I asked him about his family, and that was when things became rather difficult to believe,” Ms. Black continued. “He said he’d been born in Paris, and that his mother was the French supermodel Colette Broussard and his father was Keith Richards. He said he’d been unable to find work in Paris, and that he came to the U.K. because he thought his chances would be better here. And when he couldn’t find a job here either, he decided to start his own business.”
At that moment, the bank president, Rupert J. Thistlewaite, chanced to be passing by, and Ms. Black asked him if he might stop for a moment and listen to Mr. Broussard’s story.
Mr. Thistlewaite listened attentively as Mr. Broussard once again told his story and repeated his request for a business loan. When Mr. Broussard had finished speaking, Ms. Black picked up one of the figurines from her desk and handed it to the bank president.
“‘This is what he plans to sell,’ I told him,” said Ms. Black. “I asked Mr. Thistlewaite what he made of it.”
According to Ms. Black, Mr. Thistlewaite regarded the figurine thoughtfully, then handed it back and said, “It’s a knickknack, Patty Black. Give the frog a loan. His old man’s a Rolling Stone.”