Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Anonymous said: Puns

When I was between the ages of 11-13, my school every year would do a mountainwalking residential trip where this utterly bonkers teacher named Mrs Bloom who drove like a maniac would take a bunch of kids up to the Peak District or to Wales or one of the British ranges and everyone would spend a few days traipsing up and down big hills. It was always fun. One of the times we were in Snowdonia and there was this shop at the bottom of one of the bigger mountains which sold rocks, literally, fucking rocks, that were shaped like stuff. Now these weren’t sculptures, these were like when you look at a cloud and go “Hey, it’s a kitten!” or something, they may have been shaped a little but they seriously looked like someone just found them and offloaded them to dumb tourists using the power of suggestion to make them believe they’d bought something of value. They were all polished up and mounted on fancy platforms of wood and marble and whatever, but still, it was a fucking rock store! Like something from the Goron kingdom in Zelda or whatever. We all thought this was incredibly hilarious and I’m sure the locals did too, fleecing tourists for their cash to buy something you could just pick up from the side of the road for free. About halfway through the week we were there, we spotted one of the guys we’d seen working in the shop and my friend went up to him and was like “That shop’s a pisstake, right?” and he just winked and said “It’s a lot harder finding those things than you think”. Later that night we hit upon a plan, which was to find an awesomely shaped bunch of rocks and see if we could go to the shop and give them to him for like a finder’s fee or something, since we’d all run out of cash spending it on sweets and postcards to send to our parents and stuff. It was a dumb fucking idea, but we were 12, right? So the last day we were there, we were due to leave about 3pm, and we were given a free and we thought, the shop’s just a couple miles away, let’s go sell some fucking rocks. So we woke up early and spent half an hour at the base of this cliff that was a few hundred yards away from the hostel we were staying picking up some rocks shaped like stuff. I remember I found one that looked really like a hand and my friend had one which he was convinced was the spit of a sportscar. So we filled up our backpacks with rocks and set off for the shop, deciding to take a shortcut we could see on the map we had, imbued by our five days walking with an excess of confidence in our orienteering skills. So, I don’t know whether you’ve ever tried to walk over a mountain with a backpack full of fucking rocks, but it is not easy, especially as a 12 year old, and it is not fun. It took us fuckin hours, and we kept dumping out the rocks that weren’t so lifelike to make things easier and lighter because we were getting cold and tired and pissed-off with each other. It was fast approaching the time we’d need to turn back in order to get back to the hostel for 3pm and we had stupidly not told anyone where we were going. In the end we decided to pool our few remaining rocks into one rucksack and take it in turns and things got a bit faster, so we kept on and back at the hostel we had been noticed as missing and our teachers were apparently freaking the fuck out and organising search-parties. Then, while we were on the downslope, with the shop pretty much in sight we decided to take one final rest and the guy who was carrying the backpack filled with the stones took it off and put it aside and we all collapsed in a heap, not noticing until too late how he’d dropped the pack on a slope and it had started to roll away. “Fuck!” someone shouted when we spotted it but it was already out of our reach and it tumbled away from us and into a pool that was part of a fast-moving stream. Now we were stupid, but we weren’t stupid enough to dive into a freezing pool of black looking mountain water to go after a bag full of rocks, and after the shouting and recrimination had ended we decided to trudge on, using the one rock we had left which had fallen out of the bag when we set it down, which a guy we were with was convinced looked like the bottom half of a face, I wasn’t so sure but, we thought optimistically, maybe we’ll get a fiver for it? That’d be a fiver split six ways. The big money. So we get to the shop, it’s like 4:30 by this point, all our teachers are furious at us, we’re cold and wet and hungry and pissed off and our buddy goes up to the guy behind the counter and says “Do you buy interesting shaped rocks?” (Yeah! We had even forgotten to check whether they actually bought this shit first!) and the guy says “Sure. If it’s really interesting.” so our friend puts this rock on the counter, the one fruit of our hard days labour, our trek over a fucking mountain, and says “What about this? It’s the bottom half of a face.” and the guy gets out one of those little microscopes and looks at it closely, holds it up to the light, turns it over a couple of times, really examines it, and says “Sure, I can see it. But I’m sorry, it’s not the kind of scree chin we sell.”


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