The Pundigrion is a book of immense power. Many have gone mad scrying deeply into its pages, expecting as they often do a mere book of very good puns. But those are a dime a dozen, from The Funomicon to The Wit’s Endgemot, and have no power over the insane (merely the inane).

But The Pundigrion works on a different principle. It open’s the reader’s mind to the inner working of language, the web of phonemes and graphemes that make up language at its most base. It tears away the veil of individual language to expose the underlying code that makes puns possible. And, in this way, it drives readers to gibbering madness.

We can trace the oldest known copy of The Pundigrion to Moshe Abraham, the Mad Israeli, who composed a scroll in Aramaic in the year 135. Taken by the victorious Romans, it was later copied in Athens into Greek and Latin by Leonidas the Loony Lacedaemonian. The Latin copy ended up in the Vatican archives, where numerous vulgate copies were made by Innocentius the Insane Italian. The Greek copy was captured by the Ottomans and sent to Constantinople, where Turkish and Arabic versions can be traced to Taranuz the Touched Turk.

In total, nine copies of The Pundigrion are known to have existed, in Aramaic, Latin, Greek, Turkish, Arabic, Italian, French, German, and English. Each has had its exact whereabouts lost over time, largely because it reduces those who study it to gibbering lunatics capable of speaking only in elaborate puns. These people tend not to dispose of their estates very rationally; the 18th-century scholar Berthold the Batty Berliner tossed his copy of The Pundigrion from the dome of St Hedwig’s, for instance. It was rather quickly followed by the rest of his library, his clothes, and Berthold himself.

Chroniclers record his last words as “Singt ein Vogel auswendig? Nein, am meisten singt er vom Blatt!” A rough translation would be “Does a bird sing from memory?
No, it mostly reads from the sheet music.”

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John, a full-blooded Chickasaw, drove up in a sparkling white Nissan Quest minivan and popped the back hatch. “Go on, get in.”

“This minivan isn’t exactly what I expected,” said Carlos.

“What? It’s my Vision Quest,” said John, stonefaced. A moment later, the facade cracked and he sagged against the van, laughing.

“Heh, I guess that’s a little funny,” said Carlos.

John straightened up and his face grew stony again. “It’s a lot funny,” he said. “But don’t let me ever hear you make a joke like that, or I’ll kick your ass.”

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Like all who fancy themselves writers, I suffer from the doctrine of original syntax.

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I’m trying to think of a good pun about sperm, but nothing is coming.

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Like a bad air freshener, it just doesn’t make scents.

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An old man was killed by a heart attack brought on by a suddenl, loud noise very close to his head. The police, inspecting the scene and suspecting foul play, decided to bring in a forensic artist to make a sketch of what could have caused the noise which led to the man’s untimely demise.

“Do yoy have any idea what could have made such a loud noise?” said the inspector.

“I’m drawing a blank,” said the artist.

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Q: Do you need any help putting that cooking pot together?

A: No, I think I can handle it.

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She’s an expert in the ancient Celtic art of Hugh Moor. A grandmaster the venerable Chinese style of Jo Qing. Of course, she has years of experience in the Welsh Kyd Dyngg technique. And we can’t forget the Latin form of Ex Aggre Ation.

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One day, an easer said to a pencil: “Maybe I should do the writing.”

“Sorry, friend,” replied the pencil. “You’re just too dull.”

The eraser considered this. “Well, I guess you have a point there.”

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The man lay dead on the floor of his apartment, lovingly polished brass in his hands. “Look at this,” said the responding officer, Detective Mullins. He pointed at the cause of death, a bullet that had shattered the mouthpiece of the instrument before entering the man’s skull. “Shot him right through the sax organ.”

“Yeah, hell of a way to go,” said his backup, Grabowski. “From the pose and everything, it looks like he was in the middle of sax when he died.”

“Is it a sax crime?” said Mullins. “Should we get forensics in here to sweep for sax fluids?”

“Well, from what I see in the database, he was a registered sax offender. Played loudly after midnight despite repeated complaints.” Officer Grabowski shook his head.

“Don’t they send you to jail if you get back into sax with mirrors?” said Mullins, looking at the full-length mirror before which the dead sax offender had been playing. “That sort of thing makes me sick.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” said Grabowski. “Maybe this sax maniac had it coming? Maybe we just look the other way at another scumbag sax offender.”

Mullins frowned. “You’re sure this won’t come back to bite us?” he said. “It seems pretty clear that the people upstairs got tired of all the noisy sax.”

“Well, if he had been put away for sax crimes years ago, maybe,” said Grabowski. “Time was they’d call you a sax offender just for being horn-o-saxual. But this guy, with his rap sheet, and his sax with mirrors? No, the world is better off without his kind.”

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