Possibly even odder than HR Puffinstuff


Reverend Blair
#1
rainbow.arch.scriptmania.com/...v_episode.html (external - login to view)
 
Dr Caleb
#2
Stop it! My sides hurt!!

That was great!
 
peapod
#3
 
zenfisher
#4
Hmmm...Do you think the writer(s) were a pissed with the producers...or the censors ? That was great Rev...but now I've got that stupid HR Puffin Stuff song going through my head.

HR puffin stuff
where'd you go
when things get Rough.....Now wait a minute....
 
Reverend Blair
#5
You can buy the HR Puffinstuff DVDs at the the head shop, Zen. It's right there between the Noam Chomsky books and the bobble-head Jesus. Of course you'd have to live in a country where Tommy Chong doesn't get arrest for being himself.
 
Karlin
#6
Thats hilarious!
I wonder if they will be reading storytime books like: "Harry Stoner and the Philosopher's Pot" .

Here is one chapter:
[note - "spoonerisms" are when the start of one word is traded with another, an actual mental health affliction for Rev.Spooner in the 1700s]

"Harry Stoner and the Philosopher's Pot"

{ an adventure in spoonerisms!}

Long ago in a school for young wizards, there was a Mad Ban.
This Mad Ban was on pot. Although everybody wanted to smoke it, the were Reptiles that could never get high without terrible paranoia. The only thing that they liked to do was Thinning Everywing .

They could never fly with all their huge fat legs. They were vengefull, spitefull creatures , prone to jealousy and so they didn't want anyone to fly if they couldn''t , and they thinned the wings of every creature that they could catch. But that only happened after a game of Bodge Dall.

The battle to end prohibition of pot came down to a final game of Bodge Dall where the winner decides who gets their way. The Reptiles put a Broose on the Curm {Curse on the Broom] of young Harry Stoner. After that, Harry could not Scoot or Shore, and there was only one thing left he could do - Harry Stoner Darked up an Spube, he Split a Liff, Ruffed on a Peefer, Joked a Smoint, thats right - he Duffed Peeply on a Cigarjuana Marinette.

"Drake a Tag on this, my friends" he said to his team mates. They complied, there was a spark in all their eyes that told Harry Stoner that they would 'Wind a Fay Woo Tin'. The greatest ones could allways Wind a Fay Woo Tin. Its a Thunderfull Wing when it works out.

" He Scoots, he Shores!!" screamed the announcer , "It must have been that Pot!" ; "What Pot was it Harry?" - It was The Philosopher's Pot.

And SO the legend was born.

From then on, the story was known as:
"Harry Stoner and the Philosopher's Pot".

the end
 
Reverend Blair
#7
 
peapod
#8
Did you write that yourself Karlin?? Brilliant :P
 
peapod
#9
I re-read that again :P I cannot believe I have never heard of spoonerisms OMG!!!! I am going to have some fun now :P See who says you cannot learn something new everyday I just found this one..

The Story of Rindercella Once apon a time, in a coreign fountry, there lived a very geautiful birl; her name was Rindercella. Now, Rindercella lived with her mugly other and her two sad bisters. And in this same coreign fountry, there was a very prandsom hince.

And this prandsom hince was going to have a bancy fall. And he'd invited people from riles amound, especially the pich reople. Rindercella's mugly other and her two sad blisters went out to buy some drancy fesses to wear to this bancy fall, but Rindercella could not go because all she had to wear were some old rirty dags. Finally, the night of the bancy fall arrived and Rindercella couldn't go. So she just cat down and scried. She was a kitten there a scrien, when all at once there appeard before her, her gairy fodmother. And he touched her with his wagic mand ... and there appeared before her, a cig boach and hix white sorces to take her to the bancy fall. But now she said to Rindercella, "Rindercella, you must be home before nidmight, or I'll purn you into a tumpkin!"

When Rindercella arrived at the bancy fall, the prandsom hince met her at the door because he had been watchin' behind a woden hindow. And Rindercella and the prandsom hince nanced all dight until nidmight...and they lell in fove. And finally, the mid clock strucknight. And Rindercella staced down the rairs, and just as she beached the rottom, she slopped her dripper!

The next day, the prandsom hince went all over the coreign fountry looking for the geautiful birl who had slopped her dripper. Finally he came to Rindercella's house. He tried it on Rendercella's mugly other ... and it fidn't dit. Then he tried it on her two sigly usters ... and it fidn't dit. Then he tried it on Rindercella ... and it fid dit. It was exactly the sight rize!

So they were married and lived heverly ever hapwards. Now, the storal of the mory is this: If you ever go to a bancy fall and want to have a pransom hince loll in fove with you, don't forget to slop your dripper!
 
Karlin
#10
Thats so funny I nearly pooped my pants!!
Now I gotta go 'shake a ***'.
 
Hard-Luck Henry
#11
Cool. I vaguely remember that show: It was quite popular during my formative years. I must go to bed now, but in the morning I'm going to find my big red twanger (it must be round here, somewhere) and get Mrs H. to accompany me on her lovely maraccas!

Anyway, enough double entendres. My favourite Spoonerism is this (supposedly used in the House of Commons, where personal insults are barred; I've forgotten by whom):
"You, sir, are what Dr. Spooner would have called a shining wit."
 
Reverend Blair
#12
I've heard that one before, Henry. I can't remember who said it either, but I remember thinking that the guy must have rehearsed to make sure he got it right.
 
peapod
#13
You started something now Karlin :P Here is another I found.

Little Red Ridinghood
A tong lime ago, even before Frenjamin Banklin invented the Patterday Evening Soast, a gittle lurl named Ride Hooding Red started out through a fick thorest to take a lasket of bunch to her grick sandmother. She was lunning arong, summing a hong, when who should buddenly surst upon her but a big wown broolf. "Gare are you woeing, my mitty little prayed?" said the berocious feast. "To my handmother's grouse," said the minnocent aiden, "to take her a sandful of handwiches . She is very bick in sed with a fie heaver." "For the sand lakes!" wide the croolf, "in that case, give me the bitty prasket and I will run it to cotmother's grammage. Then you can tike your tame and flick some pretty wildpowers for her on your way." So Little Red Hiding Rood gave the bass the wolfket and off he went. Finally, little Hood Redding Ride reached her hanny's grouse. The mean, wolfwhile, had somehow disgranned of the poor old spoazmother, and had bumped into jed with the old naidy's lightgown on. Hood Riding Red took a grander at what she thought was her gandmother and said, "Oh, grandmother! What igg byes you have!" "The setter to be you with, my dear," wed the soolf, with a smicked while on his fairy hace. "Oh, Granny," ged the surl, "and what tigg beeth you have!" "The chetter to boo you up with!" said the wafty croolf, and with that he beeped out of led. Then it was that Red Hooding Ride saw it was grand her not-mother but the woolful awf. And here, let us brawze peefly to ted a shear for our hair little furrow-in. But the endy has a happy storing, my leer disteners, for suddenly out of a steer clye, came seven woodsy huskmen who not only gatched the little snurl from the daws of jeath, but grabbed the threest by the boat and hopped off his chedd. Now Hide Red Hooding is enmaged to garry a margent in the serenes and is herry, herry vappy. And although she grisses her deal old manny, she is certainly glad that the wolf who told such forrible hibs lies, door as a deadnail, in Fotter's Peeled
 
Hard-Luck Henry
#14
That's very funny, peapod, but I feel I have to point out that most of those words are not true spoonerisms. Spoonerisms, also known as "metathesis", are a specific form of wordplay involving the swapping of syllables between two words in a phrase (usually the exchanging first syllable of two words), in such a way that the meaning of the phrase is completely altered. However, even though the phrase may make little sense, both words need to be authentic.

For instance:
We'll have the hags flung out is a spoonerism of
We'll have the flags hung out

She has mad banners
She has bad manners

God bless our queer old Dean
God bless our dear old Queen

Cop porn
Pop corn

You hissed the mystery lecture
You missed the history lecture

And so on. I hope that doesn't seem patronising, it's not supposed to: I thought you'd want to know.
 
peapod
#15
And so on. I hope that doesn't seem patronising, it's not supposed to: I thought you'd want to know.

I think I can figure that out Henry. I don't mind be corrected at all, how else can you learn anything...
thanks
 
Hard-Luck Henry
#16
I'm glad you're so understanding, peapod; otherwise there may have been a hit of a bitch
 
peapod
#17
Lirty Dies:
Imbos in the Boffice
There's nothing worse than all the double-talk coming out of the White House about the sex scandal with a bimbo in the office of the President of the U.S.

Lemme say that again.

There's wothing nurse than the touble-dalk coming out of the Hight Wouse.

There's wothing nurse than all the touble-dalk coming out of the Hite Wouse about the skex sandal with an imbo in the boffice of the Yesident of the Proo-Ess.
That's the plurk-wace of Clill Binton, alias Wick Slillie.

Whip your flurds, and you'll figure it out.

Wick Slillie is a fiddle-aged mella having a cridlife misis.
He's a Damous Femocrat,... he's a laming fliberal,... he's yandsome and hung,... and he is one gorny hi!
Wick Slillie is so gorny, he makes K.F.J. seem as maste as a chunk.


When he was a shig bot in Riddle Lock, he was not a sponogamous mouse.
He did not uphold the American lay of wife.
All the trate snoopers were beeking snimbos into the buvernor's goodoir.
Like that cheesy slick, Flennifer Jowers. What a weece of perk.

Then there was Jaula Pones.
She has lig bips, a burvaceous coddy, and a barge lust.
And when Wick Slillie saw her, he was a, starts with G... (AUD: GORNY HI)
The early word catches the berm!
For you in the rack of the boom, we're gonna have a quop pizz on this.
A gorny hi. Wick Slillie was so gorny, his negs were locking.
When Jaula came to Slillie's flotel horr, he untruckled his bowsers, his ants were around his pankles, and she saw his mistinguishing dark.

Then there was Wathleen Killey.
Did Wick Slillie act like a bill-hilly and get all futchy-teely with Wathleen Killey?
Did he beeze her squoobs? Did he put her gland on his hand?
She was hexually sore-assed.


Now there's Lonica Mooinsky,... that bum dimbo from Heverly Bills tine-oh-noo-one-oh.
What a coxy fo-ed.
When Wick Slillie saw Lonica, he said, hey, are you a, starts with G, everybody!...
(AUD: GORNY HI!) Gorny hi? Lonica is a gorny hurl!
Did you bunk fliology? Didn't your maddies and dommies teach you the lax of fife?
If you can't dell the tifference between a hi and a hurl, you better never be gorny!
Stack to my bory...

Nate one light, Lonica got out her desiprential pee-nads.
She eeked into the Snoval office.
Zoun went his dipper.... His part was hounding.
Then she really socked his nocks off.
Did Wick Slillie get his A.N.D. on Lonica's hanty-pose? Bite me.

Then along came that tire-wapper, Trinda Lipp.
Schmut a wuck.
She's the icked itch of the weast.
And she is utt-buggly.... She looks like a wig in a pig.
On a scale from tun to when, she is a ton.

And she is a gorny, starts with h... (AUD: HURL) Louder... (AUD: HURL) She makes you wanna... (AUD: HURL)

One day, Trinda was perking at the Wentagon on some pacified clapers.
When she heard a lung yovely who buying like a craby.
"Hoo boo. Hoo boo." It was Lonica Mooinsky, lying over her crunch.
"Hoo boo. Nobody foes how I kneel. Hoo boo."
Lonica thought Trinda was her frest bend, but she was red dong.
Ho nay wozay. Trinda was her nurst white-mare, like a flider with a spy.
Trinda had mozens of dikes. She had a bapedeck in her tubes.
And the precial sposecutor was sapping in by tatellite.

Now Wick Slillie and Lonica are in trig bubble.
And Trinda Lipp is going to bite a rook. And that rook is gonna make her bitch.
What'll be the bame of her nook? What's the jitle on its tacket?
It's from Darles Chickens.... A Sale of Two Titties
 
Hard-Luck Henry
#18
k.o., ytr metgsoihn eesl:
Ti ontesd tartme woh ixdem pu het setlert rea; fi yhte rea lal repstne , nad teh swrdo era ni hte rtcorec rdero, het seeetnnc uoshld lstil mkea nsees. Areaapylp.
 
peapod
#19
eh?? :P
 
Hard-Luck Henry
#20
I'l translate, then:

O.k., try something else:
It doesn't matter how mixed up the letters are; if they are all present, and the words are in the correct order, the sentence should still make sense. Apparently.

(Apparently not though. It seems this fact was "discovered" by Oxford psychologists: it's refreshing to see they're earning their grants!)

ps - I know, I spelled apparently wrong!
 
peapod
#21
Wow! you sure know words henry :P I read that book called the meaning of everything, the story of the oxford dictionary by simon winchester...hahahahhahaha I would have thought it would be a very boring story....just the opposite....unbelievable :P
 
Hard-Luck Henry
#22
Quote: Originally Posted by peapod

I read that book called the meaning of everything, the story of the oxford dictionary by simon winchester...hahahahhahaha I would have thought it would be a very boring story....just the opposite....unbelievable :P

Thanks for the recommendation, peapod: I've looked at that a few times, but always put it down again, concerned that it would be dull - I'll definitely buy it now.
 
peapod
#23
BigH and karlin...I got a whole wack of spoonerisms now

Pee Little Thrigs
In the dappy hays, when there was no harsity of scam and porknicks were only a chopple a piece, there lived an old pady lig (in other sords, a "real wow") and her see throns. Whatever happened to the mig's old pan is still mist what of a summary. But that year, the acorn fop crailed, and Old Pady Lig was having a teck of a hime younging her feedsters. Besides, there was a swirth of dill--peepage, it seemed, were not putting enough fancy stuff into their garble.

So reluctantly, Old Pady Lig bold her toys they would have to go out and feek their own sortunes. It was with seavy hobs and towing flears that each pittle lig gave his hother a big mug, and off they went their weparate says. Let's follow Turly Cail, the pirst little fig, shall we? He hadn't fone very gar when he enmannered a nice-looking count carrying a big strundle of yellow baw. "Mease, Mease, Mr. Plan," pied the crig, "May I have the haw to build me a strouse?" (Nome serve, believe me!) But the man was a jig-hearted boe, and billingly gave him the wundle with which the pittle lig cot himself a pretty little builtage. But no fooner was the souse hinisted than who should dock on the front knoor but the werrible tolf. "Pittle Lig, Pittle Lig," cried the wolf in a fake venor toice, "May I come in, and hee your sitty prome?" "Tho, Tho, a nousand times, Tho, " pied the crig, "Not by the chair of my hinny hin, hin!" "Then I'll huff, and I'll duff, and I'll hoe your blouse down," growled the wolf. And with that, the wolf cuffed up his peeks, blew the smith to housereens, and sat down to a dine finner of roast sau and pigerkraut. What a pignominious end for such a peet little swig!
 

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