Another one under the category of odd sports. From what I understand New Zealand is a beautiful country, but I don’t think I will be headed there anytime soon to participate in this activity.
As organiser John Grainger predicted, the result was pure chaos as sheep, people and dogs struggled along the planned route through North Island’s Te Kuiti, a rural farming town 570 kilometres (355 miles) north of the capital, Wellington.
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Rodney, you refrained from “baa, humbug” and “who’s your daaaady” comments. I’m impressed.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled wool-gathering, after butting in so rudely.
(Should I also apologize sheepishly for these puns, or should I continewe until I’ve rammed the point home?)
J.
Can’t pull the wool over your eyes. There’s two thing’s everybody probably knows about me. (Well at least they should know the second one)
1. I think puns are the lowest form of humor.
2. I really like puns.
Wool you two fleece stop with the flockin’ puns?
Sorry, McGehee. We’ll be quiet as lambs.
J.
One of these days I’m gonna figure out how to work “lanolin” into one of these punfests, and then you’ll be sorry.
McGehee, it took me a couple minutes, but I got one for “lanolin.” Unfortunately, it’s a regional thing — if you were from New England, you might get it; otherwise it’d be pointless.
(And I’ll say it before anyone else does — “And when has that stopped you before, J.?”)
J.
So spill it, Jay. What are you waiting for — me to pull your finger?
I am waiting in ‘shear’ anticipation for this line. It’s gotta be a pun that can’t be ‘bleat’.