In 2041, Ferdinand Feghoot successfully sponsored the perpetrator of these puns for membership in the exclusive Time Travellers Club, at their opulent rooms in King Charles III Street in London. He brought him in through the J ( connecting the club rooms with any number of centuries, and presented him to the Members.
Old Dr. Gropius Volkswagen looked at him dubiously. “Why should we make him a Member?” he grumbled. “He does not even look as if he has genius!”
“I assure you,” Feghoot said, “that he has. His puns are even more atrocious than mine. He is a dedicated writer—a veritable pen-addict.”
“Maybe it is so,” growled the old gentleman, “but)low do we know he is a good, solid citizen?”
“I will vouch for him,” Feghoot declared. “For generations, his whole family have emphasized their traditions and history .They have all been bred for roots.”
“My dear fellow,” put in the Club’s president, Vice-Admiral Sir Trumpery Buckett, “is all this on the basis of your own intimate knowledge?”
“Absolutely!” said Ferdinand Feghoot. “ After all, he was conceived in our garret!”
“.Read ‘em and weep.