To my disgust, the fax machine began humming early in the morning, spewing out terrible limericks about the Bobbitts.
Being a highly sensitive and politically correct person, my conscience tells me to run them through the paper shredder.
But I suppose they can be of some value to psychologists, sociologists and others who study the workings of the sadistic mind.
So I will stifle my better instincts and pass them along as a service to scholars.
One of the first to arrive was the work of Chicagoan Paul Stroili:
When drinking in full regalia
Sometimes your memory will fail ya'
But John B. woke up thinking
I really must have been drinking
I have misplaced my genitalia.
Kevin Theis was man enough to express some remorse, saying: "I plead guilty to the same vileness as your lunch companions. God help me but they just popped into my head." And he wrote three of them.
Sweet Lorena did not use precision
The darkness, she said, hindered vision
She jumped on the divan
And gave husband John
An un-volunteered circumcision.
Big John B. was a creep, don't ya' know,
Whose wife gave him a horrible blow
Now the people he meets
As he walks down the streets
Say, "John Bobbitt? That old sew-and-sew."
"This case," said the cops, sure does pickle us
Searching for this man's thing does not tickle us
It was somewhere 'round here
That she threw this man's gear
But to us the whole thing is ri-dick-ulus.
Without any pangs of remorse, Jim Schaefer, of Mt. Prospect, Ill., offered this to the world:
A much-abused lady named Bobbitt
Said unto her husband, please stop it
Or I'll draw my stiletto
And chop down your palmetto
And see just how far I can lob it.
The next one came from Lake Forest, Ill. The author used only the initials A.H. Such modesty. Or maybe shame.
His technique, oh boy, it was brutal
To retrain him, she knew, would be futile
So she aimed for the tip
But the blade it did slip
And cut off the whole kit and caboodle
Peter Kendall, a journalist, made two offerings. He will have to live with himself.
Now you know that it had to sting
But no curses did poor Johnny sing
He was quite relaxed
When his manhood was axed
Guess it wasn't that big of a thing
John Bobbitt was a bit too cocky
And his marriage grew ever more rocky
Now it's true, I swear,
That in terms of underwear
He wears stitches, not boxers or jockeys.
A guy named Harold, who sounded like he was drinking his lunch, called and said: "I wrote a couple, but I don't have a fax and the mail takes too long. Can I just read them to you?" And he did:
A fellow named John went out drinking
When he finally got home he was thinking
He would give his sweet wife
The big thrill of her life
Alas, the means to this end was soon shrinking.
Pausing only to take another swallow, he went on:
It's not sinful to hit a few bars
And to drink beer 'til the pre-dawn hours
But he lurched to his bed
With sheer lust in his head
Now when he meets a new gal he just cowers.
"OK?" Harold said. "What'ya think? Not bad, huh? I never wrote limericks before." I wished him a happy lunch.
The next contribution was faxed from George, who said: "Don't use my full name. My wife takes this thing seriously and we haven't been getting along. I don't want to be next."
They're making plans in movie-land
For a film about Lorena's sleight-of-hand
Whether it's funny or sad
One thing makes me glad
I don't have to be Bobbitt's stunt man.
And from Larry Meekma in Oak Lawn, Ill., we have this:
The legend of Bobbitt is growing
It's a story well worth the knowing
He offended his wife
So she took up her knife
And put an end to his coming and going.
I will end it with this anonymous contribution:
This story is just so much flotsam
Appealing to those who are rotten
I know that don't rhyme
But I don't have the time
As a journalist you have hit bottom.
To which I must respond:
I'll admit that I wasn't too keen
About dwelling on a topic so mean
But do I really havta
Write about NAFTA
When the nation is obsessed by John's wien?