just for the pun of it

A pun is not bound by the laws which limit nicer wit. It is a pistol let off at the ear; not a feather to tickle the intellect.
-Charles Lamb

I have a love-hate relationship with the pun, this play-on-words that more often than not elicts a rolling of the eyes, a gritting of the teeth, and an expelling of the breath. I generally appreciate wit, but my taste runs to the more subtle variety. I blame my father, the master punner. Nothing pleases him more than this clever turn of phrase, and he especially relishes dropping new ones on his audience with loud voice, punctuated pause, and then his own laughter. He's James Bond, except without the deadpan (or the license to kill). So I guess after twenty-seven years, I'm a bit jaded. My family and I hardly even laugh at him anymore, and we warn guests not to encourage him, although no one I've ever brought home has heeded me. Of course, it doesn't really do any good to ignore the punning, because he just repeats it in a louder and louder voice until someone acknowledges it.

In spite of this history, one of my favorite things in the world is OPI nail polish, the names of the colors of which are almost all puns. Yesterday jabooshee and I got pedicures; my toes are now Grand Central Carnation, and hers, Melon of Troy. The latter is part of a Greek-inspired series introduced this summer, my personal favorite for obvious reasons (to wit, that I'm a big Classics dork). Others in this ilk include "Don't Socra-tease Me," "Redipus-Oedipus," "Ti-Tan Your Toga," "To Eros Is Human," and "Greece Just Blue Me Away." The new British collection has the gem "My Throne for a Cranberry Scone." Other favorites are "Yucatán If U Want" and "You're A Pisa Work."

If liking them is wrong, I don't want to be right.