Of the many things tiresome characteristics of readers of the Old Yorker, it is perhaps their impatience and their ingratitude which stand out as especially rebarbative. Since the moment the very first of our “Dirty Limericks about George Bush” was posted, with the stated intention of driving Bush from office through the use of an especially effective form of poetic ridicule, we have been receiving e-mail messages from readers asking us if we have been successful.
For the record, then, no, the Old Yorker’s dirty limericks have yet not forced President Bush to resign the Presidency and, when they do, you will probably hear about it, so there’s no need to keep pestering us with e-mail asking whether or not the president is still in office. Until you hear otherwise, you should assume that he is.
Like Democracy itself, reading the Old Yorker comes with both rights and responsibilities. One of those responsibilities is not to act like an ass. One of the rights is to enjoy our cutting edge material on a regular basis. Here then, the latest of our “Dirty Limericks about George Bush.
There was a young fellow named Bush
Who liked to make love in the tush
One day a young lass
Asked, “George, why always the ass?”
Quoth Bush, “That’s what makes my dogs mush!”
