Round these parts, there's no sense of right or wrong. People feel they can let their wordplays and turns of phrase run wild. And because of that, nobody wants to be the lawman. Well, that's where I come in. Here, you risk your skin catching punsters and the juries turn them loose so they can come back and make you groan again. If you're honest you're poor your whole life and in the end you wind up dying all alone on some dirty street. For what? For nothing. For a tin star. But that's the job. I'm the pun sheriff of Butt Gulch.
Now some Hollywood studio tried to put up a poster near the telegraph office with a terrible joke about credit and shopping. I aimed my six shooter at their hand to stop them but hit their ankle. Looked like it hurt real bad.
Now, some different Hollywood types were doing the same thing over by the blacksmith, 'cept it was a movie about dogs. And the pun was worse. I aimed for their wrist but shot them in the neck.
Some fleabag newspaper in New York had a pretty awful pun in its headline (someone told me "BK" is often short for Brooklyn). That itself wasn't the problem...
...it's just that they ran it TWICE in the same publication. I aimed for their feet to drive them out of Dodge, but I hit them in the belly. That's a terrible place to get shot.
Mabel over at the dry goods store called my attention to a catalog that someone had left out front. Pretty standard, terrible stuff in it. But when I looked closer, I read one of the worst puns of my career as a lawman:
I rounded up a posse real quick and we rode out to Favorites Catalog Ranch. There we burned down the house and barn, raped the livestock, and I shot the owner in the thigh, though I was aimin' for his heart that time. Maybe I should start drinking whiskey again to stop my hands from shakin' so much...
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