Are you a dimwit?

After my column 'The Heifer Rule' was published last Tuesday, an online reader (screen name Carlton Reynolds) posted the following comment: "I may be dim-witted, but I can't seem to find the punchline in the heifer joke!"

Carlton, you're in good company if you find my weak attempts at humour puzzling at best, "arcane" at worst. But, because you seemed uncertain as to whether or not the appellation 'dimwit' applies to you, rest assured that your failure to locate the complex mix of the 'heifer' punchlines wouldn't necessarily mean you're a dimwit.

But, since you mentioned it, here's a quick primer for equally unsure readers. Carlton, if you think the year's four seasons are salt, pepper, mustard and vinegar, you might be a dimwit. If you believe the process making water safe to drink by removing impurities is 'flirtation', you might be a dimwit.

If you think that a fibula is a little white lie, you might be a dimwit. If you believe 'varicose' means 'nearby', you're vari cose to being a dimwit. Or you might be high!

"Though I know that evenin's empire has returned into sand;

vanished from my hand;

Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping.

My weariness amazes me; I'm branded on my feet.

I have no one to meet

And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming."

Carlton, if you think a condominium is a form of birth control, you might be a dimwit. A Caesarean section isn't part of Rome and a seizure is NOT a Roman Emperor named Julius. If you believe either of these things, or that World War I began because a hungry fellow named Archie Duke shot an ostrich, you might be a dimwit.

Dim-witted politicians?

Finally, if you think elections are important to democracy because sex can only happen when a male gets an election, you're a politician. And a dimwit.

"Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship.

My senses have been stripped; my hands can't feel to grip;

My toes too numb to step; wait only for my boot heels

To be wanderin'

I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade

into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way.

I promise to go under it."

Some people believe the winning of elections is everything, and all goals thereby achieved without effort, thought or fiscal discipline required. So, as a nation, we stumble and stagger like hopped-up drug addicts from election to election, using borrowings as temporary 'fixes' without a care as to how we'll survive when that hypodermic is no longer available.

"Though you might hear laughin', spinnin'

swingin' madly across the sun.

It's not aimed at anyone.

It's just escapin' on the run

and but for the sky there are no fences facin'

And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme

To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind

I wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're

seein' that he's chasing."

Let's try something different. Let's put Jamaica first regardless of election outcomes. Let's use budgetary exercises as tools of more efficient spending rather than indiscriminate spending cuts ordered by hypocritical lending agencies. Let's stop worshipping foreign debt and depending on borrowings to ensure temporary 'highs' until the next election.

"Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind;

Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves;

The haunted, frightened trees; out to the windy beach;

Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.

Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free;

Silhouetted by the sea; circled by the circus sands;

With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves;

Let me forget about today until tomorrow."

Dylan's Mr Tambourine Man message mystifies earnest musicologists trying to locate profound meaning. 'Tambourine Man' was simply a drug pusher and the lyrics a strung-out addict's plaintive wail while awaiting his next 'fix'. Jamaica's been strung out between loans for decades. We wring our hands religiously, like any addict, begging for the next loan to remove us from the reality of our predicament. We've long been dimwits. Will we rehab or continue seeking the comfort of the Tambourine Man's "jingle-jangle"?

"Hey! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to

Hey! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

In the jingle-jangle morning I'll come followin' you."

Peace and love.

Gordon Robinson is an attorney-at-law. Email feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com.