AN: I needed to get away from the angst of my other story and lighten things up a bit. I'll be going back to A Bottle Can't Hold You soon enough. For now, this is my attempt at humor, which happens to be the Fuzzy One roasting Bob Dylan. If you like Bob Dylan, you're going to be entirely offended by this little one-shot, so DO NOT READ IT. You've been warned.

WARNINGS: Bob burn. Rub Bob. (Translation: Unlike Weird Al Yankovic, I suck at palindromes, and you shouldn't read this if you are offended by me bashing Bob Dylan or using some mild language.)

Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men: Evolution (Aww), and I definitely don't own anything related to Bob Dylan (Thank GOD).

Bob Who?

Kurt Wagner wandered down the halls of the Xavier Institute. It was a lazy summer day; many of the Mansion's residents were out and about, enjoying the heat and sun to be found outdoors. Not having fully shed his winter coat yet, Kurt was reluctant to venture out in heat that would soon have his fur drenched and matted and sticking up in little tufts. He was in no hurry to have a Wolverine hair day, especially not all over his body.

Inside it was cool and quiet, calmer than nearly any day that year had been. It was a perfect setting for some quiet relaxation, or perhaps some meditation.

In other words, it was boring. And Kurt was on a mission to change this.

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As he walked past Scott's door, his ears were assaulted by the sound of someone erratically strumming a detuned guitar and wheezing like a dying animal. The guitar could be attributed to Scott; he was no prodigy, to put it mildly. But the voice was definitely not Scott's, unless the older boy had taken to bad impersonations of Marlon Brando as the Godfather.

Intrigued and repulsed at the same time, Kurt gently opened the door to Scott's room, hoping to observe this anomaly unnoticed.

He poked his head into the room just as a harmonica solo began.

Kurt clawed at his sensitive ears in agony, pitching forward and falling through the doorway to land on his knees. His head was throbbing, but he pushed himself towards the source of the noise. He had to make it stop, had to find what was making that infernal racket and destroy it forever…


Kurt opened his eyes to find himself at a bewildered Scott's feet.

"What's wrong, Kurt?"

Was that really even a question?

Two fistfuls of shirt brought Scott down to Kurt's level. "Was is this Scheiße?" Kurt screeched, inches from his friend's face.

Scott stared slack-jawed at him. He would be no help. Releasing his hold, Kurt cast around for the cause of his pain, golden eyes landing finally on Scott's stereo.

Cyclops was actually listening to this? On purpose?

Three-fingered hands groped frantically at the stereo for a moment before curling into fists and smashing at the buttons, hoping one would end the cacophony.

"Babeh le'm'falla—" the off-key warble of the speakers was cut off as his knuckle found the stop button.

Panting in relief, Kurt turned back to Scott, whose head was tilted awkwardly to one side, looking for all the world like a lost dog.

"What… the hell… was that?" Kurt finally managed to gasp out.

Understanding finally crossed Scott's face… to some extent. He at least realized that Kurt had been referring to the unholy racket coming from his CD player, but for some reason he seemed unable to grasp that it was not meant for human consumption.

"It's just Bob Dylan," he replied, as if naming the monstrosity somehow made it acceptable.

"Bob who?" Kurt asked, incredulous that someone with a normal-sounding name could produce such inhuman noise.

Hearing this, Scott looked shocked and somewhat wounded. "You mean you don't know who Bob Dylan is?"

Kurt shook his head. He would certainly have remembered that name, if only to avoid ever hearing his "music" by mistake.

"Bob Dylan, famous folk singer, been popular since the early 60's? Not ringing any bells here?"

"He's been playing music since the sixties?"

"Well, yeah…"

"And in all that time," said Kurt, "No one thought to buy him a guitar tuner? I mean seriously, man, the guy sounds like an asthmatic hobo with a guitar he found in some dumpster!"

"Oh come on, Kurt, it's not that bad. He's just an acquired taste. You get used to him eventually, and then he's not so bad."

"You know, Scott, the same concept applies to cobra venom, but I'm not particularly interested in starting a career as a snake charmer. Know why? Cause people aren't meant to let poisonous snakes bite them!"

"You're not being fair, Kurt," Scott complained. "At least give me a chance to show you how great his lyrics can be."

Kurt sat on the bed and crossed his arms. "All right, then," he said. "But I'll only sit through one song. And you have to agree that after that one song, I can make my honest commentary on it."

Scott shrugged. It seemed fair. "Deal."

Walking over to the stereo, Scott fiddled with the controls a bit until he found the song he was looking for, then pressed play. Kurt braced for the worst.

The guitar was out of tune, as always, but at least there was no harmonica… yet. Then the vocals began, and Kurt wished he had simply refused.

"Come gather 'round people, wherever you roam," Bob moaned inconsolably. The man sounded like someone had their fingers permanently hooked into his cheeks.

Kurt put his head in his hands and began rocking back and forth. There had to be some way to make this tolerable. He had to last through this song, but how could he bear—

He froze, and a slow smile spread across his face, hidden from Scott. Ah, inspiration. Kurt leaned forward and began listening intently, only flinching slightly at the harmonica solos…

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The last chord of the song finished, and Scott, true to his word, stopped the CD before it could progress to the next track.

"Well?" He asked, turning expectantly to Kurt.

There was a carefully blank expression on Kurt's face, but his eyes were twinkling with a mischievous light.

"In order to fully express myself, mein Freund, I need to get a few things from my room," he replied before disappearing in a puff of smoke.

He reappeared a few moments later with a guitar in his hands and something wrapped in his tail. Scott caught a flash of something orange before the tail quickly retreated behind Kurt's back.

"Ahem," Kurt coughed ostentatiously as he reached for the tuning pegs. "Do, re, mi, fa, so, ti, la, di, doooooooo!" he squeaked, purposely and horrendously off key, cranking the pegs at random.

"And now, Mein Herr," he announced, "My homage to our dear friend Bob."

Two fuzzy fingers touched the frets in an entirely inappropriate manner as his other hand began strumming out obscenities from the body of the guitar. After a few moments of this, he grinned at Scott and launched into his own improvised verse:

"Come gather 'round, people, wherever you roam,

"Come and visit me in my retirement home,

"And come and watch me sing as I pass kidney stones,

"Come eat Jell-o, bad biscuits, and gravy.

"Now call over the orderly, Mr. McComb,

"My Depends, they need a-chaaaaangin'!"

As if to signal the end of the first verse, Kurt's tail sprang up in the air, waving a cheap kazoo made of orange plastic. He had won it at a fair long ago, and today it would serve a beautiful purpose.

The Fuzzy One brought the kazoo to his lips with his tail and began playing the harmonica solo as he fluttered his eyes seductively at a horrified Scott.

Kurt stood, still swiping at the guitar, and left the kazoo in his mouth as he danced over to the stereo, tail now swinging freely. The clever appendage deftly opened up Scott's CD player, retrieved the Bob Dylan CD, and flung it out the open window, waving goodbye as it sailed out past the balcony and off into freedom.

Scott, who had up to this point been sitting quietly and praying for the parody to end, gave a scream of rage and barreled towards Kurt, who strummed out one final chord, bowed gracefully as though his performance had brought a standing ovation, and teleported just in time to leave his friend with a mouthful of sulfur.

A bamf behind Scott signaled that the blue mutant hadn't gone far. He turned around to find Kurt bowing again, now sans guitar but still with the kazoo in his grinning mouth.

Underneath his glasses, Scott's eye twitched.

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Two teenagers raced down the halls of the Xavier Institute, one utterly livid and red as the glasses on his face, one on all fours and tooting out taunting little melodies on a bright orange kazoo as he ran.

"Come here, you fuzzy little monkey! I'm gonna get you and make you scrub the X-Jet with the album covers to your goddamn Beatles records!"

Kurt couldn't help but smile. Boring day, indeed.