A couple of hundred K out of Wellington, halfway to Wanganui, lies the sleepy hamlet of Bulls. Yes, you heard me right. Bulls is a small place, claustrophobically so, the kind of place where you might initially receive a warm welcome before finding yourself mysteriously disappeared and reduced to cutlets on the town barbecue, soaked in special sauce. Maybe you might be the next donor to the mayor's special Belt of Nipples. Who knows?
We didn't stop, only passed through. But the fun of Bulls comes in spotting the pun-based japery the good townsfolk have indulged in to pass the long, lonely days out there in the middle of fuck all. To whit:
On the town gift shop: Collecta-bull.
On the police station: Consta-bull.
On the local branch of Subway: Submersi-bull.
And my personal favourite, the church: Forgiva-bull.
And many more. You've got to admire a town prepared to extract that much mileage from a pun, the dedication required to really get the most out of that sucker. Bulls, I salute you. From a safe distance, because Christ knows I'm not stopping there.
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