Wednesday, July 27, 2011

More stupid literary jokes

Q: What's Emily Dickinson's favorite reindeer?
A: Dasher!

Q: What's her favorite dwarf?
A: Bashful?

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Jane Eyre.
Jane who?
Jane Eyre!
I know you're here, what's your last name!

And anti-jokes (maybe these are all anti-jokes):

Q: Why did Jane Eyre cross the road?
A: I don't know, I haven't read it.

Q: What did Emily Dickinson say to the hot dog vendor?
A: Do you have any Tofu Pups?

Truly tasteless literary jokes:

Q: Why did Sylvia Plath kill herself?
A: To get to the other side.


  1. Are these originals? They're awesome.

  2. Yes, all from my own brain.

  3. Yes! Literary joke! Here'smine:

    "Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to Walden Pond?"

    "Simplify, simplify."

    (A take on the classic, "How do I get to Carnegie Hall?" joke.)

  4. Q. Why can't flat-chested poetesses attract men?

    A. Minimal pairs.

  5. Hahahahahaha.


  6. Jokes that offend no one offend me.

  7. Why was Emily Dickinson running when she died? Because she liked to end with a dash.

  8. Q: What did you think of Calvin's book?

    A. I though it was trillin.

  9. A. I THOUGHT it was trillin.

  10. Q. What writer will you find in a urologists office?

    A. Willa Catheter

  11. Q. What's the difference between someone who takes a daily fiber supplement and [insert just about any contemporary novelist's name here]?

    A. One shits right; the other writes shit.

  12. Q. How was the celibate poetess just like her poetry?

    A. I couldn't get into either of them.

  13. What should great English author do when he get bad review? Shake spear.

  14. On the Suicide of Sylvia Plath

    Who gives a shit?
    She was this lofty Bostonian bluestocking
    narcissistic beyond belief and
    morbidly attracted to despotic
    mysoginists. Not that I'd know
    I hate fucking Preppies.
    The woman was a fruitcake.
    Got shock treatments at MacLeans
    a patrician snakepit for blueblooded
    nutters. Marianne Faithfull also
    once detoxed there.
    So did Steven Tyler...
    Poetesses, as we know, are off their trolleys.
    Take sylvia Plath.
    Neurotic bitch.
    Fucking offed herself.

    Before any of you mail me letter bombs, this is a parody of Eileen Myles's "On the Death of Robert Lowell." I have the utmost respect for Plath--and Myles. Plath was once my favorite poet; I used to fantasize about kicking down the door and pulling her head out of the oven.