I remembered a joke a few weeks back, one of those jokes I used to tell on boy scout trips in middle school. These two Norwegian immigrants, Ole and Sven, are plowing their field near New Salem, N.D. Several furrows into the job, their horse drops dead in his tracks. Sven turns to Ole, stunned.
"Ole," he says in that Hollywood slow-talk we Dakotans have been so unfairly stereotyped with. "Dat horse der, he jus' dropped dead right in his tracks."
"Ya," Sven replies. "Whatcha think we should do 'bout plowing dis here field?"
The two agree that a new horse is in order, as neither feel too inclined to yoke-up and grit through the lash. They trudge to town only to learn of a mass horse shortage. Seems the equines, having successfully joined a labor union, went on strike. Ole and Sven are about ready to call it quits and head to Kroll's Diner for some fleischkuekle when they stumble on a decrepit looking donkey with 10-foot-long ears. Desperate, they settle and deem their new steed Ant.
Ole and Sven have nearly finished plowing the field when they see a thunderhead rolling across the prairie from the direction of New Salem Sue. Lighting. Hail. A microburst. They drive Ant toward the barn, only to find that his ears are about two inches too tall to fit through the door. Their Swedish neighbor, Leif, watches all this from the fence.
"Hey, neighbors," he shouts. "Got a problem?"
"I'll say," Ole answers. "Dat der donkey, he jus' won't fit inta tha barn. His ears is just too long, doncha know?"
"Nah, all you have to do is dig some of the dirt away from under the door and he'll slide right in."
Proud that he's helped his neighbors, Leif retreats to his house for some tuna and lefsa. When Leif is gone, Sven bursts out laughing.
"What's so funny der, Sven?" Ole asks.
"Oh, Ole," Sven replies. "Dat stupid Swede. He tinks he's so smart. It ain't the LEGS that are too long, it's the EARS."

Yeah, I know. Lame. And drawn out. But I'm guessing if you're reading this blog you don't have anything better to do than read stupid Ole and Sven jokes. So I wasted three minutes of your life. Suck it up. What do you want me to do, write a sonnet?

Work is painfully slow tonight. For those of you who don't know, I'm the entertainment editor of a certain illustrious rag of a student newspaper. My reporters filed their stories on time or earlier tonight, and I'm now rocketing through page design. Helps that I only have enough material for one page. Ideally I'll be out of the newsroom and at James Bar by midnight. Ideally.

I always promised myself I wouldn't be one of "those guys," the ones with blogs. I blogged professionally for four years, a paid gig that pretty much funded my a.m. Finnegan's runs and tobacco pipe habit freshman year. It wears on you. So we'll see how this goes. Maybe I have more to blog about now. Lord knows the last few weeks have presented endless fodder for ego-driven rants. Studies, the job, changes in the social atmosphere. But perhaps for now I'll leave you with Ole and Sven and Ant. Hell, if that joke doesn't somehow relate to my life right now, I don't know what does.