Bob Dylan Knighted By Wasted Guy Outside Night Club

ock musician and poet Bob Dylan received the ultimate honor Friday night from an unknown fan believed to be under the influence of several chemical substances. For all his years of service in changing the face of modern music, Dylan was knighted in a brief ceremony behind the Homebrew bar and grill that took only a couple minutes.

Dylan, who was performing an unannounced set at the Homebrew promoting his new album, was extremely surprised and delighted by the honor.

"It was very cool," said Dylan. "You don’t get into this life with thought of major rewards like being knighted. You do it for the music, or maybe the money. This is quite a big moment for me and I’d like to thank the drug-influenced guy who bestowed this upon me, wherever he is."

Dylan was on his way to the parking lot of the club with friends when the unidentified high guy stopped him in the alley, proclaimed Dylan the man, and knighted him with a very quick tap on each of his shoulders with an empty Thunderbird bottle, pretending it was a sword. He then pissed his pants and stumbled back into the club. Surprised but happy with the honor, Dylan continued on to his car.

"I thought about trying to find the guy, but I didn’t want to insult him after he had just done this very great thing for me. I was also a bit shocked by it all. Even if you expect this sort of thing is going to happen, some alley behind a club is about the last place you’re ready for it."

Columbia Records, Dylan’s label, has jumped all over the high-press event. New releases of all Dylan’s previous albums are being issued with a royal seal on them under the artist heading of "Sir Bob Dylan."

"Everyone at Columbia has always known America has a special genius in Bob Dylan," said Columbia V.P. of Advertising John Bonlee, "and now people everywhere will know that. The dude on heroin or crack or whatever behind that club knew it, and recognized Dylan for his years of service to the music industry and world as a whole."

Sources report that if the blitzed night club rambler can be found, Columbia Records would like to have him knight Dylan again, just for the sake of press, on a two-hour TV special with friends and fellow musicians playing songs in Dylan’s honor. Dylan, who has written rock ’n’ roll and folk staples like "Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man," "Blowin’ in the Wind," and "Like A Rolling Stone," could not verify the possibility of a two-hour TV event, but said he would definitely not want to air opposite Friends and Survivor.

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Seems like everybody's got something against salt these days. You can't dip your French fry into the saltshaker in a restaurant any more without getting dirty looks from every overzealous health nut in the joint, like you just sluiced the skin off an newborn baby and stuffed it with StoveTop and onions. You'd think it was strychnine or pure Bolivian blow the way these shitbirds put on a sour puss. Well I hate to be the only pooper at the party, and I don't want to give any of you politically correct folks an anal hernia, but I've just got to say it anyway:

Fuck you all, I love salt.

Don't look at me like I just crawled out from under a rock on planet Neanderthal. I've read all the screaming headlines printed in vivid blood red about what doctors of today have to say about salt. That it'll boost your blood pressure higher than Tim Leary in a hot air balloon and make your arteries hard like a fifteen year-old at the Playboy mansion. Doctors of today cross the street to avoid salt spilled on the sidewalk and wear full-body condoms when they swim in the ocean, I know. But you know what the thing is? The doctors of today are for shit.

I'm not kidding, they're worthless. Remember a few years back when they decided that flying a kite was good for arthritis? Then all those old suckers were killed by lighting? Then the doctors decided that wine is good for your heart, so everybody ran out and stocked up on the vino, but then a week later doctors "discovered" that drinking too much wine will make you shit out your ovaries. What, do these guys own a chain of liquor stores or something? Every other day they're pulling some startling revelation out of their collective ass, like eggs give you glaucoma or milk makes your feet stink. I swear to God these guys are filling out some kind of Medical Mad Libs they got in med school and are laughing their asses off as they fill them out at their posh doctor parties and make drunken prank calls to the press. I trust those guys about as far as I can throw a herniated disk.

So I'm not about to let these slappy sons of bitches ruin the great fun I have eating salt. And I do mean fun. I don't care what it is, salt makes it better: steak, burgers, potatoes, salad. Even ice water. And don't forget to salt your butter. Have you ever had unsalted butter? Sweet bland-assed Moses, I had some of that stuff on a roll once accidentally and I thought I'd had a stroke that paralyzed my taste buds. The mere memory of it gives me the shivers.

I don't think people today realize how lucky we are in this day and age, to have salt available in the quantities that we do. Just the other day I enjoyed a salt-encrusted fudge roll at one of my favorite breakfast haunts, the Gravestone Mill. A simple pleasure, true, but just try and order yourself up one of those about 6,000 years ago. You just couldn't do it. And not just because you weren't born yet. Back in the day salt was rarer than a celibate high school girl and in many cultures was worth more than its weight in gold. This may sound crazy to your modern ears, but just imagine trying to choke down a doughy, overcooked baked potato with just some gold flakes on the top. Not too appealing, eh?

After that, when salt became more readily available, it predated refrigeration as a way to preserve food. Now that's what I'm talking about. If I should ever stumble upon a time machine, you know precisely where I'm setting the dial. That had to be some kind of heaven on earth. All the salt you could eat, and nary a dirty look for your trouble.

Sure, folks only lived to about 30 back then, but when you died, I bet it was with a salty smile on your dry, crackled lips. Amen.

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Hey Shorty, you remember that long-hair fella that we caught living out in Pete Steingel's barn all those years back, what was his name? The Unibrow? Univox? Some dang fruity-tooty made up thing not far from that. The one who'd been growin' them funny mushrooms that weren't no good for cookin' and whatnot?

You know the time. We was headin' out there to watch that barn cat that was eatin all that there lead paint that was flakin' offa Pete's barn, what was that cat's name? Snooker? Somethin' around them parts. Damn if that cat weren't more fun than a retarded stepson. Eatin all that paint and stumblin' round like Grandpa Sneb at bar time. Remember that time he fell outta that tree, into Pete's woodchucker? Well dang Shorty, I guess that's why we ain't seen that cat around lately. I'm thinkin' here he got himself woodchucked.

Anywhere, we was goin' out to have a laugh at that cat when we found that Unibrow out there livin in the barn like it was some Garden of Evan and his name was Evan. Only he didn't even get that part right, seeing as how he called himself Univ- Unicorn! Dang, Shorty, that's it! The Unicorn.

I remembert it now cause of what he always used to say, about how The Unicorn didn't need no job 'cept to live in the beauty of the Universe or some hoohash resemblin that. I remembert when Pete first heard him say that, Pete grabbed the hat offa The Unicorn's head and wiped his horse's ass with it, then told The Unicorn it was now his job to wear the Universe's shitty hat. Hee hee, dang iffn that Pete wasn't a quick one, ay Shorty? You'da thought he would have thought a switch off that woodchucker before he reached in there after that cat now, wouldn't ya? I sure miss Pete.

Anyhooch, The Unicorn musta took some kind of hint from that there hat-wipin' incident, because he was gone from the Steingel barn that night. I figgerd he must've shuffled on up a rainbow or some other such colorful way of leavin' town, so you understand why I ruined a good pair of drawers when I went down to my basement one night to set some bait for silverfish and found that unbathed lovechild livin' in the crawlspace behind my cooler. Sweet Moses, Shorty, I may have soiled your trousers and you wernt even there. And for that I apologize, Shorty, yessir for that I apologize.

Well, needless to say, Mr Unicorn received a swift education about the finer details of Kentucky ash in next to no time, and when he left town it was with a Looville Slugger logo tattooed backwards on his back door, as they're fond of sayin' over in Lewhampton. And to tell you the truth, Shorty, I didn't give a thought to him again for many a year after that, excepting the time I went down to my basement to spray for silverfish and found that mannequin that Harlon Rinkleather left in my house after he got juiced up and broke into Sears that one night. Needless to say, another pair of drawers met their maker that night, and when I flung them oft into the woods I remembered The Unicorn.

Anywaste, Shorty, the reason I bring it up is that fella was on the news the other night, or so I hear. Turns out he was a fumigate from justice, livin' over in Europe somewherest for all these years. They said he was some kinda radical somethin-other, I dunno. Maybe like a commugymnist or some such business.

Just think about it, Shorty! A real-live free-radical livin right betwixt our noses, and behind our coolers. Kinda scary, aint it? All this has got me thinkin that when I spray for silverfish this year, I might stop at that Po' Boy Market and pick up some free-radical spray while I'm at it. Never can be too careful, Shorty.

Yessir. Never can be too careful.

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