Escape your life for a little while — come play in mine.

A joke so bad it’s . . . well, still kind of bad.

Posted by Lissa on January 22, 2009

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (though not as far as Endor, to be sure) there lived a king and three knights. (There were actually more than three knights, but those knights do not concern us. We shall therefore ignore their existence.) The king was a good and happy king, save for one problem — he had no son. (Alas, in those days upon this time of which we speak, there were no enlightened womens-rights activists to whack the king over the head until he saw that his daughter, lovely and charming though she was, had also a first-class brain. Which was lucky for the princess, for she planned to be the power behind the throne; her first-class brain reasoned that if the knights ever revolted, they were likely to chop off her husband’s head and leave her pretty neck intact.)

Anyway, as the tale goes, the king declared that the three bravest, most successful, most powerful, richest — well, you get the picture; they wuz the shiznit! — knights were to battle each other for the right to wed the princess. Being brave, strong, powerful knights, they immediately informed their squires that they (the squires) would be battling on behalf of the knights. “Go forth, brave squires,” said each, “and fight for glory! Fight for honor! Fight for my right to hop into the sack with that pretty princess! And, um, I’ll give you a raise or something.”

Unfortunately for some of the squires (but fortunately for our story), the knights were not equally rich and powerful; they did not have equal amounts of squires. In fact, the numbers were rather unequal; while the first knight had something like twenty squires, the second had only ten or so, and the third lowly knight had only one single squire.

Undaunted, the knights ordered their squires to meet in the forest glen, for upon the next dawn they would battle to the death. The last squire alive would win victory on behalf of his knight (and then probably expire from wounds, but, like the extra knights, that does not concern us at this time).

Luckily for one of the squires (and this, indeed, makes the gist of our tale), he had both a strong survival instinct and the ability to think creatively. This single squire — as a matter of accuracy, I will specify that this squire was the single squire belonging to the third knight — hied himself to the glen at midnight. Then, in darkness, he twisted a strong rope into a noose, hoisted a large iron cauldron up into the treetops and crept into the vessel, concealing himself.

At daybreak, the squires of the first knight and second knight met with a great and bloody clash. They fought, and slashed, and parried. They punched and kicked and bit. They bled and twisted and died. (Which surprises no one. War ain’t pretty, you know.)

And when at last the battle dust had settled, it was seen that not a single squire on the field of battle was left alive. But high above the field of battle, the single squire stood up in his cauldron and claimed victory.

The third knight therefore won the right to marry the princess. And he did, indeed; and the old king died peacefully; and the new queen (who used to be the princess) used her first-class brain to run the kingdom without ever hurting the pride of the new king (who used to be the third knight), and they all lived happily ever after. Not that we really care about that, because there was a lesson to our story. And that lesson is . . .

. . .

. . .

that the squire of the high pot and noose was equal to the sum of the squires of the other two sides.

P.S. Got this joke from Mike, who got it from his dad, who used to tell MATH JOKES when he was a kid. I admit to embellishing it just a bit.

UPDATE: Doubletrouble linked with his own version, thanks!  Also, I made Jay’s head hurt *snigger*


9 Responses to “A joke so bad it’s . . . well, still kind of bad.”

  1. Jay G. said


    That was bad. I mean… BAD.

    Math puns hurt Mongo’s brain…

    • Lissa said

      Believe it or not, there was actually a second version of that joke — something about squaws dancing on a hippopotamus hide — but my brain exploded after the first one so I don’t quite remember

  2. I put up my version of this at my place, & yeah, bad…

  3. JD said


  4. Brad K. said

    Lissa, Now all we need is a re-telling of my sister’s story of The Valley of Trid from her junior high days in 1966.

    Or, there are the Ferdnand Feghoot stories.

    Go ahead. Just google “Tarzan’s Tripes Forever”. “Tarzan grins, ‘You never hear Tarzan’s Tripes Forever?'”

    Oh, the sun she is shiny
    And the breeze it is warm.
    And the grass she is growing
    Downhill of the barn!

  5. Brad K. said

    Lissa, that is just .. cruel. OK. The way I heard the story from my sister..

    There is a river that runs off a mountain, called the Trid River, and the valley under the mountain is called the Valley of Trid. The people living there, the Trids, are a peaceful folk, farming and trading and living a simple life.

    But one day the river stopped flowing into the Valley of Trid. Farms, and animals, and people, too, need fresh water. When the river stopped flowing, that was a problem to all.

    The giant didn’t make the matter more urgent – chores needed to be done, animals and gardens and crops needed water, or the people would have to move to where there was water. But the giant that lived on the mountain over the Valley of Trid did make the problem worse. Because the giant didn’t let anyone on his mountain.

    When a few men tried to follow the former river bed of the Trid River, that meant they had to follow the way right up onto the giant’s mountain. The giant saw the Trids on his mountain – or he smelled them, or heard them, or felt the vibration of their feet upon the mountain (or maybe his snitch in town sent word). Once those luckless Trids stepped onto the giant’s mountain, that was *it*. That giant came running over the mountain, looming over trees, leaping large boulders, and kicked those Trids off his mountain.

    But the Trids still needed water. That evening several younger men told the village elders, “We have to know what happened to the Trid River! We have to know whether we can restore the waters of the Trid River somehow, or whether we must move!” And those brave young men snuck out under cover of darkness. In the dead of night they crept from bush to slime-covered rock to tree, following the trace of their lost Trid River.

    But the giant knew. And he ran. And he kicked those brave young men. He kicked them left, and he kicked them right! That giant kicked them right down the mountain.

    The next day the village elders thought of one more effort they could try. They visited the next valley, and begged the Rabbi to talk to the giant, to find out what had happened to their water. And the Rabbi agreed to try. “What could it hurt?” he replied.

    So the Rabbi accompanied the elders back to the Valley of Trid, and proceeded up the mountain. And here came the giant!

    But the giant ran over to the Rabbi, and looked around. The giant gave a great sniff. And he sat down with a worried frown, to puzzle over this Rabbi.

    The Rabbi started. “Giant! These peaceful people of the valley asked me to ask, where is the water?” Then the giant’s face lit up, and he fairly leaped to his feet (more like a quick clamber, he was a very large giant), and ran around the shoulder of the mountain. The Rabbi could hear the ruckus, the giant had found some Trids trying to sneak past, to find the water while the giant and Rabbi talked. The giant gleefully leapt among the men, he kicked left and he kicked right, he kicked them right down the mountain. Then, recalling his visitor – here came the giant, trundling back to the Rabbi, where he sat and patiently pondered!

    The Rabbi was upset at this display. “Giant!” he called (really, there was no need, the giant was right there, but the Rabbi was very indignant). “These peaceful folk of the valley need water! Why won’t you guard them, escort them, to examine the river bed to find the –” But it was too late. The giant saw some men trying to sneak by again. Again with the gleeful charge, again with the kick ’em left, kick ’em right. He kicked them right down the mountain. And calmly returned to where the Rabbi stood, watching angrily.

    “Giant!” the Rabbi yelled, barely waiting for the giant to approach again. “If you are so bent on kicking, kick me! Give me the kicks you would give those poor people searching for an answer, kick me up and down your mountain while they search!”

    “Give the kicks to me!” yelled the Rabbi.

    And the giant looked at the Rabbi. He turned his head to the left and pondered. Then he turned his head to the right, and frowned. Finally, he told the Rabbi.

    “Silly Rabbi. Kicks are for Trids.”

    And that is how I recall the tale of the Valley of Trid.

  6. wolfwalker said

    Oh ho, puns! I can do puns! Have ye by chance heard of the new late-night radio talk show that 680 has decided to start? Gonna replace that nut Art Bell with something more sensible: a call-in show for werewolf athletes.

    They’re calling it the Wolfman Jock Show.

  7. That was so lame.

    And I’ll probably wind up telling it to everyone I know. 😉

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: