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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Dear Commune:

You have my phone number. You, the commune. You need to call the phone company and straighten this out. I've had the same phone number for 42 years and I'm NOT about to give it up. Thank you.

Agnes Knutson
Bromade, NJ


Dear Agnes:

We here at the commune are very sorry to hear that your life has become interesting in a way that makes you mildly uncomfortable. Obviously, we'll call the phone company right away and make sure they restore to you the number you've earned by staying in the same miserable place for your entire life. Pssssh! Right! You can stuff it up your ass with the nice old lady act, lady. We here at the commune pay our bills, biiiiatch, and if you see fit to bring your mess all up in our shit again you will be introduced to some mad hurtin'. Damn. Also, tell your withered old biddy friends to stop calling here, they keep kicking us off the Internet.

the commune

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Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for anything we got your kids to eat. Lengthy precedent has established that U.S. courts consider a triple dog dare to be legally binding.

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Well well well, I have come to learn a few things about myself in these past few weeks, but nothing more important than this: I will never smoke PCP again. Unless it's free.

I've spent the past six weeks roaming the Earth, which later turned out to be my apartment, with my invincible quarter-sized right hand midget, Nevil. And because I spent most of my nearly two-month binge higher than Rodney King on payday, I was able to discover two important things.

One, I cannot stop a car moving at top speed with my face, as I may have wildly boasted in the past. And secondly, but most importantly, I am a master robot builder.

Now I use the word master somewhat loosely, because I've only built one. But oh what a robot she... he... s/h/it was.

The idea came to me while smoking pure PCP out of a trumpet I found in the trash, and watching that futuristic movie where Will Smith hunts down robots while wearing old school Converse sneakers. Now, I don't know if you've ever worn a pair of those, but whether you have or not, take it from me: They suck fuckin' whale dork. I say the future's looking pretty goddamned bleak when they can build robots that look and move like humans, but still can't make a pair of comfortable basketball shoes.

It was right about this time that I jumped up out of the bathtub and exclaimed "Holy shit!" That happens all the time, but this time in particular I capped off the gesture by dashing naked into the kitchen, to begin immediate construction of the Mickey Hanes 1.0.

Now the common moronic belief about robot construction is that you need a metallic skeletal frame surrounded by complex electrical wiring, a state of the art CPU brain, and some kind of gelatin-like skin to cover the whole mess. I'm here to tell you, that's a load of bullshit.

I made mine almost completely out of common household items: some toilet paper rolls, a few empty potato chip bags, and a ton of spare parts I found attached to my neighbor Tom's Mustang. You'd be amazed at all the parts that aren't being used under the hood and on the undercarriage. That's right; my baby is running on a turbocharged V-6. And just to make it super-bitchin, I sawed the head off my old NES robot and crafted it into the ever-vigilant crest of Mickey Hanes 1.0.

My original plan for building a high-tech computer brain out of an X-box and a Black & Decker toaster oven was cruelly kicked in the pills by the news that my neighbor's X-box had a porno stuck in it and some kind of heinous weasel had taken up residence in my own toaster oven. Always thinking, I ended up just sticking the antenna from my old RC car behind the robot's chrome-plated bumper shoulders. No points for style, but hey, fuck that.

When I fired up the robot for the first time, I almost dropped the RC controller, because it instantly snatched up Nevil and stuffed him in a shoebox in 2.3 seconds flat. I know this because I timed it several times afterwards.

I didn't know midgets had collapsible skeletons.

After several hours of laughing at Nevil trying to eek his way out of that shoebox before sicking the robot on him again, my face started hurting, so I decided to make some adjustments.

I tweaked a few wires here and there, played with a crankshaft or two, then yanked the ripcord to turn the robot on again.

I don't know what the hell I did that time, but when the V-6 started up, Mickey Hanes 1.0 made a sound like a roaring lion on angel dust. That was right before it made a bee-line straight through the front door, and hauled ass completely out of the range of my RC controller.

I vaguely remember screaming a semi-intelligible order at Nevil to stop that thing, but the robot mowed over that worthless, pint-sized meatsack like he wasn't even there. Nevil at least had the good sense to cling to the robot's underbelly and let it drag him through the door, and out of kicking range, before it peeled out on his face and left him in a smoking midget divot on the front lawn. I haven't seen the robot since. Nevil, unfortunately, hung around until I dug him out of the lawn.

Understandably furious at his letting-my-robot-escape insubordination, I hung Nevil upside down out of my window with piano wire for three days, by which time there was a family of birds nesting in his pants. Teach that goddamn twerp to disobey my orders.

In closing, wherever Mickey Hanes 1.0 is, I hope he's happy and doing good things, or at least running over important shit in that berserk way of his. But hey, no use crying over spilled milk, so off to my next task. I just tricked Nevil into eating two pounds of Alka-Seltzer by telling him the stuff will make him invisible. This is going to be awesome. Later.

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