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Voice of the Imagination, whole no. 19, November 1941
Page 6
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From 67 Thistle St, Lutwyche N3, Brisbane, Q, Australia, "Remember-the-Alamo" ROBERTS rites: "I have made a pun. A wonderful, sidesplitting, pun. When I heard it I laughed fit to kill myself and then waited for everyone else to join me. And what was the result? Dead silence. I have tried that pun on everyone within range; I have inflicted it on men, women and others, on too-intellectual and non-intellectual, on B.A. and b.a. You are my last hope, Forrest; unless you laugh, I will migrate to Central Africa or Uruguay and become one of those silent, grim figures about whom the natives will whisper, as I stride along limned against the setting sun: 'There goes No-heart Roberts-- there is something in his life about which he never speaks....' It is one of those complicated puns -- I don't know if the jargon on which it is based is known in the States. 'Lash' seems to be a peculiarly Australian word in both its meanings-- you say a man is 'Quick with the lash when he possesses the ability to commit assault and battery in a reasonably thorough manner and in a conveniently short space of time; and when some new article of domestic use -- spoons, tins, etc. -- appears casually on a boat, you say, 'Nice spoon, where did you lash it?' thus intimating your belief that the owner has acquired more that merit in the sight of the lord. Well, here is my pun. It is a definition of goulash-- a kleptomaniac ghoul. Huh, I can hear the sneers even at this distance -- well, you asked for it, master-mind; no man can tag a label like 'Faustralian' on me and not suffer the penalty which in this case was the torment of having a pun explained to you, in great detaul and in some 300 words. Thistel Street, Forrest; meno me umpune lacessit! (Please let us now the stfal situation in Central Africa or Uruguay.) '' Sorry, Mr. Rothman, but I went down for the third time in that letter of yours in which you lay pitilessly bare the tortured, twisted, mangled thing that is, or was before the cat got it, my soul. I will say though, there was a deal of good psychology in your remarks, Miltonl and it may help you to know purely in confidence of course, that all my inhibitions are repressed to high heaven and my libidos are tangled
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From 67 Thistle St, Lutwyche N3, Brisbane, Q, Australia, "Remember-the-Alamo" ROBERTS rites: "I have made a pun. A wonderful, sidesplitting, pun. When I heard it I laughed fit to kill myself and then waited for everyone else to join me. And what was the result? Dead silence. I have tried that pun on everyone within range; I have inflicted it on men, women and others, on too-intellectual and non-intellectual, on B.A. and b.a. You are my last hope, Forrest; unless you laugh, I will migrate to Central Africa or Uruguay and become one of those silent, grim figures about whom the natives will whisper, as I stride along limned against the setting sun: 'There goes No-heart Roberts-- there is something in his life about which he never speaks....' It is one of those complicated puns -- I don't know if the jargon on which it is based is known in the States. 'Lash' seems to be a peculiarly Australian word in both its meanings-- you say a man is 'Quick with the lash when he possesses the ability to commit assault and battery in a reasonably thorough manner and in a conveniently short space of time; and when some new article of domestic use -- spoons, tins, etc. -- appears casually on a boat, you say, 'Nice spoon, where did you lash it?' thus intimating your belief that the owner has acquired more that merit in the sight of the lord. Well, here is my pun. It is a definition of goulash-- a kleptomaniac ghoul. Huh, I can hear the sneers even at this distance -- well, you asked for it, master-mind; no man can tag a label like 'Faustralian' on me and not suffer the penalty which in this case was the torment of having a pun explained to you, in great detaul and in some 300 words. Thistel Street, Forrest; meno me umpune lacessit! (Please let us now the stfal situation in Central Africa or Uruguay.) '' Sorry, Mr. Rothman, but I went down for the third time in that letter of yours in which you lay pitilessly bare the tortured, twisted, mangled thing that is, or was before the cat got it, my soul. I will say though, there was a deal of good psychology in your remarks, Miltonl and it may help you to know purely in confidence of course, that all my inhibitions are repressed to high heaven and my libidos are tangled
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