One of the pleasures of working for the University of Texas literary and arts magazine, other than the time a bunch of poets smoked out the office, was reading through the submissions. While a large number of pieces were the typical "I'm in college so everything that happens to me is the most important thing that ever happened in all of human history" tomes, there were the occasional standouts. And since we had a fairly open policy regarding submissions they'd come in from all over the country. What I most remember from all the poetry and prose was a collection of graphic homoerotic limericks from a letter with a state prison return address. And it's not just because of all the rhymes you can form with "analingus." It was actually really good. Completely unprintable. Horrifyingly detailed. But as limericks they were profound. When Sam Smith bravely defended the dying dying dipstick, I was a little afraid that guy was coming back. Instead we got armyofchuckness as a pirate.
Yarr. They'll take me dipstick when they pry it from me cold, dead hand! As fer yer oth'r new-fangledy doo-dads...
Alternator gauge? Be thar headlights? That's how ye know.
Gas gauge? Give that fender a bounce and give a listen. Be thar sloshin? Thar be gas.
Temperature gauge? See ye steam? Thar she blows!
Speed-O-Meter? Ye gonna believe a wee needle o'er the feel o' yer right foot? Ye dissapoint me.
O-doh-meter? Wee numbers in a row do not a car's tale tell.
And don't get me star(rrrr)ted on yer Satty-lights an' yer Gee-Pee-Ess. If the sun an' the star(rrr)s be good eno' fer tha likes o' Magellan, they be good eno' fer ye.
/guy who just installed a wooden wheel in his car
It probably didn't help that our literary magazine was called Analecta'