*** Note from the author: this is one of a handful of Bob tales available for you to read. If you are demented and enjoyed this, please also read the following tales of Bob’s disturbed dementia here – Bob Files His Taxes & Bob Returns a Video Tape to Blockbuster ***
Bob’s Dangling Solution
Bob reached his hand out from across his bed to hit the snooze button on his alarm. The alarm had not gone off, but all the same he smacked the button just to show the clock “who the boss was.” Aimless would be the term best used to describe his current predicament. He was bored. He had tried everything he could think of: making a pillow fortress in bed, making a tee-pee in his pajama pants, steamrolling over hundreds of powdered donuts on his king sized mattress, and playing five little monkeys all by his onesies. None of this was actually helping cure his boredom, and worse than that, he had smacked the snooze button on his still unset alarm clock one more time.
“I’ve had it with this inequity!” Bob hollered as he slipped face first off of his bed and onto the floor.
He had been attempting to perform the Tom Cruise slide from “Risky Business” on his sheets when his foot caught the edge of the bed frame, allowing the momentum to send Bob’s melon onto the hardwood floor of his bedroom at approximately eighty-eight miles per hour. With a flux capacitor and the proper power source, he might’ve even been able to travel through time with this maneuver. It was a blow that would have killed any other mere mortal, but Bob was not any mere mortal. He was on so many prescribed drugs, and to be fair non-prescribed ones too, that his body reacted to most collisions in the same manner that a drunk driver reacts to being in a car crash: don’t tense up, just stay limp and go with the flow. As such, Bob was only partially unconscious, mildly concussed, and seeing cartoon animated critters frolicking about the room. The latter symptom was a normal, everyday occurrence Bob. Also, don’t get me started on the fact that Bob didn’t even know what the word “inequity” meant, he had just heard it in some JFK speech on the History Channel and had been blindly regurgitating it ever since.
Tired of being laid out on the floor, Bob picked himself up and went to his bathroom. There, he stripped, bathed, shaved, took a poo, brushed his teeth, flossed, cleaned his ears, and practiced yodeling – just not in that order, don’t ask. Bob nearly slipped on his clothes, still wet from the shower he took with them still on his person, yet deftly avoided them only to slam nose first into the door frame of the bathroom.
“Ouch-kabibbles,” he muttered to himself softly as his nose slid slowly down the full length of the frame.
Being accident prone and drug addled was one of the only things that you could consistently count on Bob for.
Determined not to fall again, Bob proceeded to flip over on his back and then crab walked, naked parts dangling to and fro, to his closet.
“Let’s bring sexy back,” he exclaimed as he stood upright and slapped his naked tummy whilst he perused his clothing racks for the right ensemble. Then it hit him, he had already brought sexy back: naked was the new black. “Ooh,” he cooed as he tweaked his nipples, “me likey. Let’s go turn some heads!”
Bob flew out of his closet, through his bedroom, down the hallway, past the living room, and straight out the front door, all while miraculously missing the ever-present landmines of crap, primarily mountainous reams of unused dot matrix printing paper, multiple genuine certified chunks of the Berlin Wall, and an absurdly large collection of classic Trapper Keeper notebooks… yes even the one with the red Lamborghini, that were littered all around the flooring of all of the aforementioned areas of his home. With a jiggle of the knob, Bob was out the front door as naked as Kevin Bacon on a movie set. He was ready to conquer the world.
“Howdy good neighbor!” he chimed as he passed Mrs. Pettigrew as she watered her petunias.
Her watering tin hit the ground as soon as she saw his dangling participle flowing in the sun-drenched wind. A mere four seconds later she fainted, half dead, onto the grass yard beneath her.
“Nap time already?” Bob inquired. “Good call, one mustn’t overwork themselves, especially in this heat. Capital idea!”
Bob meandered on down the block waving his hand, and subsequently through the sheer power of his swagger, his dingus, at any and every one that he encountered.
“Good lord, have you no decency!” Mr. Habersham snarled at the man without apparel.
“Decency? What’s decency? Can you buy it at Wal-Mart? Are they rolling back the prices?” Bob asked in earnest. “They have everything at Wally-World, don’t ya know?”
“You can’t buy decency, ya’ dork,” Mr. Habersham fired back. “It’s something that your parents should have taught you a long time.”
“Oh,” Bob said with a slight sad little sigh. “It was never easy for me. I was born a poor Sasquatchian child. I remember the days of just sittin’ outside the cave, singin’ and dancin’ in the snowy climes of Canada.”
“Bullshit!” Mr. Habersham snapped.
“Well bullshit, horseshit, monkey-shit, and sasquatchian-shit to you as well,” Bob gleefully yelled back. “And, I have your dork right here!” Bob grabbed his privates with an available hand and waved them in his neighbor’s general direction.
“Why, I never!” Mr. Habersham stated with a labored look of exasperation on his frowning face. Bob ignored that specifically grumpy neighbor as he moseyed on down the sidewalk. A few scant minutes later a police officer approached Bob, and asked him to go home and put some clothes back on. That transaction went about as smoothly as you might have expected it to, and ultimately ended with three very distinct events:
1) Bob was tased, repeatedly for disorderly conduct.
2) Mr. Habersham cackled to the point of hysteria, having been the one to call the cops in the first place.
3) All three of them peed themselves, Mr. Habersham from laughing too hard, Bob from all of the tasing and the cop from Bob holding onto him while being tased.
A good time was had by only one out of the three.
Bob awoke in the county holding cell with a pair of tax payer provided clothes on.
“By Zeus, what form of shenanigans is this?” he exclaimed at the top of his lungs. “I am an American, and I am free, and if I want to walk around naked then that is my constitutionally upheld right!”
Bob stripped down to his birthday suit once more and continued, “you know, our forefathers didn’t fight for theirs and ultimately our freedom just so that some old fuddy-duddies with ben-wah balls up their asses could stop us from walking around as nature intended. In fact, it was Benjamin Franklin who famously said, ‘We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately.’ He clearly meant to hang loose, man. Just let it all out, your boobies, and penises, and other flopsy-woppsy parts. Just let it all hang out, naked, together as a community. See clothes are the enemy! Clothes are the tyranny of the King of England. We must fight that tyranny. It was James Otis that said, and I may be paraphrasing, ‘Clothation without representation is tyranny!’ This, my fellow inmates is tyranny most fowl, and I will not stand for it. Rise up my brothers, shed your clothes and, let us become a brotherhood of free men unshackled by the burdens of fashion, image, or status. Let us remove the barriers and stand for equality, true equality! Let us be the fresh tide that cleanses this wretched country and brings forth a new generation of liberated naked folk!”
“Sir, I’m only going to ask you once: put your clothes back on and shut up,” the arresting officer stated, now feeling much better having taken a shower and putting on a clean, unsoiled, uniform.
“Give me nakedness, or give me death,” Bob challenged the cop.
The cop didn’t hesitate as he drew out the taser and zapped Bob once more. Bob was holding onto the metal bars of the cell during this altercation, the electric current passed on through all four of the men in the cell with him and they all started urinating themselves profusely. Bob urinated as well, but not himself – on the cop who was standing in front of him holding the taser, as our insane hero was properly naked.
“’Remove yourself, sir!’ – John Adams,” the cop said as a sort of a hollow zinger, as he drank in the fact that he was indeed soaked in urine once more, and this time not his own.
Once the smoke cleared, the inmates were cleaned up and the cop as well, it was finally starting to calm down at the county lock up. Bob was now bound in a straitjacket, with a ball gag in mouth and lashed to a gurney. He was hysterical and was likely ranting about the effects of cow flatulence on global warming, or some other such pap, but we couldn’t hear him, just his desperate cries through the gag. A lady in a medical outfit approached Bob, and gave him a lovely injection of liquid night-night. Bob was adrift in puffy little clouds of pure happiness, where his dangling nakedness and wholly inaccurate remembrance of American Revolution history was appreciated and at the same time, not an awkward burden on the rest of the entire planet. And that is how we shall leave Bob, happy, naked – at least in his mind – and unaware that he likely never be allowed in civilized society again. It really is what’s best for him. Good night Bob, flop it around all you want now little buddy: you are free!
The End?
