As we pointed out last week, to the surprise of many, we here at the Old Yorker respect and admire George Bush. To us, this is in no way in conflict with our desire to force him out of the White House by publishing vile and obscene limericks about him. Fine person though he is, we have come to the conclusion that he is simply the wrong man for the job he now holds. And so we say again, resign, George Bush! Resign the presidency by noon tomorrow and the limericks will cease! Ignore us and we will redouble our efforts to prepare the crudest possible sallies against you!
You may wonder if our use of the limerick form is not in and of itself an insult to the president. Au contraire. Sure, the limerick may be humble bit of doggerel. But we would submit that, in their way, the impressively endowed chap from Nantucket and the girl from Rangoon with the flatulence problem are more memorable characters than Emma Bovary. The company they keep may lack the refinement of the provincial petit bourgeoisie but we say with pride that we are more at home with them and their friends the lusty swain from Duluth and that girl with the detachable leg. What was her name again? Peg, perhaps.
Here, then, is this week’s limerick:
A middle-aged feller called George
Enjoyed making love in the morgue
Although the women were cold
And some very old
They never failed to make his penis engorge
