During lunch with several co-workers, one of them brought up a disgusting subject.
“I’ve written a limerick about that Bobbitt couple,” he said. “Want to hear it?”
Despite my protests that it wasn’t a fit topic for a lunch conversation, the others urged him to go on. So he recited his crude little poem:
Big John was a lad of great lust
Had a wife who was filled with distrust
One night while he slept
With a knife, in she crept
As a lover Big John’s now a bust.
To my disappointment, everyone hooted and laughed. But news people are notoriously insensitive.
Even worse, they took out notebooks and began composing their own limericks and reading aloud. It was appalling. But I’m going to suppress my revulsion and pass some of them along to show how callous people can be about the misfortunes of others.
There once was a Bobbitt named John
Who thought he was quite the Don Juan
His wife disagreed
So the next time he wee’d
John couldn’t locate his wand.
Isn’t that loathsome?
Lorena wished John could be nicer
But he wasn’t much of a de-icer
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If she finds a new spouse
Let us hope he’s no louse
Or we might have our first serial slicer.
Odious isn’t a strong enough word to describe such inhumanity.
Big John Bobbitt might have been hipper
Had he kept his hot hands from his zipper
But to his wifey’s dismay
Big John leaped to the fray
The results would have pleased Jack the Ripper.
Absolutely vile. But they refused to desist.
A surgeon was filled with great tension
Trying to sew on a thing we can’t mention
He stitched and he sewed
Used all the skills that he knowed
But the wee thing won’t stand at attention.
John Bobbitt was never a loner
In fact, he was known as a roamer
His wife seized his prize
And cut him to size
Now he is his own organ donor.
There was once a crime most venal
One might say ’twas inches from renal
It wasn’t for sport
That she made him so short
Her intentions were nothing but penal.
I ask you: What ever happened to compassion?
The Bobbitt case sure is a dilly
Though it sounds a little bit silly
He said she’s the hacker
Who lopped off his whacker
She said she was only trying to Free Willy.
Such low humor. In the future I will lunch alone.
There once was a man from Manassas
Who was fond of sleeping with lasses
His wife had enough
So she chopped off his stuff
Now let’s see him try to make passes.
People at the next table chuckled. There are boors everywhere.
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There once was a lady named Bobbitt
Who got so fed up that she lopped it
She said, “I’m sorry honey,
But your conduct’s not funny,”
And she very efficiently stopped it.
I don’t know if I can go on. But I’ll try.
There once was a place in Virginia
Where a gal snipped it off like a zinnia
She whipped back the sheets
Ignored his sad bleats
And attacked like a professional ninja.
Fortunately, the waiter was bringing the check.
John Bobbitt’s detractors will scoff
For it seems the judgment’s been soft
He’s been retrofitted
And now he’s acquitted
That’s the last time he ever gets off.
Now with dread I await the mail. I know there are many sadists out there who will try their hands at the limerick form at poor Bobbitt’s expense.
I should point out that most of the above trash was written by men. What ever happened to male bonding?
By the way, anybody got a good rhyme for “bonding”?