Deadpan Humor You Need

Princes Alistair and Barnaby were not "forest people."

Alistair’s idea of roughing it was a room without a silk duvet, and Barnaby once tried to duel a butterfly because it looked at him "disrespectfully."

So, being stranded in the Whispering Woods after their horses decided they’d rather be literally anywhere else was a disaster.

​

"Barnaby, I’ve found a berry," Alistair announced, holding a neon purple fruit that was vibrating.

"Don’t eat that. It looks like it has a grudge," Barnaby replied, poking a tree with his jewel-encrusted rapier. "Besides, how are we lost? You said you had a sense of direction!"

"I do! My direction is currently 'away from the scary squirrels.'"

​As night fell, the brothers tried to build a fire. Barnaby attempted to use two rubies to create a spark. "Rubies represent fire, Alistair. It’s basic symbolism."

"Symbolism doesn't cook a pheasant, you buffoon!" Alistair snapped, trying to ignite a damp log with sheer indignation.

They eventually gave up and spent the night huddled together, screaming every time an owl hooted. Alistair claimed he was "establishing dominance" via vocal projection.

​By morning, they were covered in sap and shame.

"If we die here," Barnaby whimpered, "tell the court I died fighting a dragon. Not because I tripped over a root and cried for twenty minutes."

Suddenly, the forest floor began to dissolve into a soft, white mist.

The terrifyingly loud crickets turned into the sound of a distant harp.

​Alistair blinked. He wasn't leaning against a jagged oak; he was face-down on a plate of cold waffles.

Barnaby was snoring loudly across the breakfast table, clutching a butter knife like a sword.

"Your Highnesses?" the head butler whispered, poking them gently.

Alistair looked at his clean, sap-free hands.

“Barnaby, wake up. We aren’t forest people.”

“Did I kill the dragon?” Barnaby muttered into his napkin.

“No,” Alistair sighed.

“You just buttered your own sleeve.”