Each year, in Austin TX. there is an O.Henry "pun-off" where contestants compete to win the best of that years puns. While this years winners have yet to be
I posted some winners of the actual contest before, but these were voted on by the Save The Pun Foundation members as best stressed puns.
from Best Stressed Puns of 2004.
Brisket..To speed something up.
Castrate..To evaluate all the actors in a movie or play.
Dollop..To dress up attractively.
Exposed..A retired model.
Forthcoming..Three visits weren't enough.
Germination..The birthplace of Beethoven.
Hi-fidelity..A devoted couple.
Institute..A spontaneous session of wind and brass instruments.
Logarithm..Tapping out the beat of a tune on a tree trunk.
From 2003: Love Letters by Gary Roma - see updated version --->HERE<---
Words are just lucky letters. How do letters get lucky? They go to bars. Let's listen:
A consonant goes into a bar and sits down next to a vowel.
"Hi!" he says, "Have you ever been here before?"
"Of cursive," she replies, "I come here, like, all the time"
He can tell from her accent (which is kind acute) that she is a Vowelly Girl. He looks her over. She's short and has a nice assonance.
She sure is a cipher sore I's, thinks this consonantal dude. He remains stationery, enveloped by her charm. "And what an uppercase!" His initial reaction is so pronounced, he doesn't know what to say. He is, at present, tense. Admiring her figure of speech, he falls into a fantasy.
He pictures a perfect wedding: They exchange wedding vowels.
The minister says, "I now pronouns you man and wife."
They kiss each other on the ellipsis. "I love you, noun forever," he whispers. The conjugation is in tiers. In a word, they are wed.
He awakens from his daydream and proposes a dance, but she declines.
Ferment there, she looks like she's going to bee [sic].
"Gee, are you okay?" he asks her.
"I'm, like, under a lot of stress ... I've got a yeast inflection."
"I knew something was brewing."
He calls the bartender. "Listen, bud, my beer is warm."
The bartender takes the bottle and empties it in the sink.
The dude watches as his hops go down the drain.
"Let's go outside," he says to her. "I'd like to have a word with you."
"Are you prepositioning me?"
"I won't be indirect. You are the object of my preposition."
"Oh my God, you're, like, such a boldfaced character!"
"I see your point. But I'm font of you. C'mon let's go."
"Do I have to spell it out? You're not my type, so get off my case.
Reluctantly, he decides to letter B. "Now my evening lies in runes," he laments. He leaves, hoping to have letter luck next time.
And last (but not least) from 2001:
The Peter Pan club? Never. Never.
The quarterback club? I'll pass.
The compulsive rhymers club? Okey‑dokey.
The Spanish optometrists club? Si.
The pregnancy club? That's conceivable.
The Self‑Esteem Builders club? They probably won't accept me.
The Agoraphobics Society? Only if they meet at my house.