Q: There you go. Knocking your betters and making fun of
I suppose you’re a great American novelist.
A: Not hardly.
I’m an Internet poet. With a dial-up modem.
The driver’s side door, flapping like a
worn-out blind.
Q: Hare-lip everybody on Bear
Creek.
A: Terry Southern.
Q: You’re Joey Pants, publishing a
newsletter in Second Best.
A: Come up on my belly.
Q: No Fake Howl.
A: We’re No. 2!