There was this one time, when I was traveling with Mum in England(?), and we were staying in this B&B. We'd washed out our underthings and put them on the radiator to dry, and we were really, really punchy from jet-lag. We were making all these roasting underpants jokes, and laughing harder and harder. The guest in the neighboring room was this dour looking kid, the all-black-wearing sort with his bangs in his eyes, and we tipped over into full insanity when Mum said, "I'm sure we're interrupting our neighbor who is reading The Critique of Pure Reason
in the original German right now." You can hurt something inside your skull trying to stifle out of control laughter, is what I learned from this experience. So, poor Kant, all I can think about when I see that title now is some underpants sitting on a radiator, and crying with laughter. Poor Kant. Poor our neighbor.