I'm really tired today. Not only did I stay up late for limericks (that's nothing new on a Wednesday night), but I got a tetanus shot and I have a feeling that is wearing my body out more than my brain will admit.
Luckily, I got the new Oxford American in the mail today.
And, as always, Roy Blount, jr., doesn't dissapoint. (So it's lengthier than the stuff you usually read here, but it's worth your while, believe me.)
I feel that a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I've never liked Bob Dylan's music (or lyrics, even). And whenever I've asked anyone to explain it's appeal to me, the answer seemed to boil down to: I was young and it was the first time I paid attention to someone using words in a creative way. -- Okay, I'm paraphrasing, but I defy you to prove me wrong.
But I don't mean to antagonize. I have come to realize that Dylan-ites are best treated with a bemused nod and, after they've talked themselves out, with a change of subject.
So, along similar lines:
What do you do when a pit bull humps your leg?
You fake an orgasm and slowly back away.
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