I have written a handful of these tacky little tales of the deranged Bob and his continuing misadventures. If it tickles your fancy, you can read them: Bob’s Dangling Solution, Bob Returns a Video Tape to Blockbuster, and Bob Files His Taxes. May God have mercy on your soul if choose to read them. I’ll say a few “nomine Patris” for you.
A Day in the Life of Bob
By: Packy
The night was sultry, not that this descriptive opening statements has any bearings on the story being told, nor does the writer expect that many of the current generation will even catch the reference… but I digress.
Bob didn’t know whether he wanted to get up out of bed, or not. For a change of pace he rolled himself off the the bed, down the hall, and then to the pantry adjacent to the kitchen (all with only hurting himself 38 times along the way). After 3 hours of naked yodeling, Bob stood up and looked in his pantry for something “nummy” to eat. He saw what appeared to be a lifetime supply of “Nuke-O-Noodles” and 13 cans of generic retired beans. All of these items were edible, yet they were also just as likely to make Bob to projectile vomit unicorn poop, and as such he skipped a meal altogether and played strip scrabble by himself. It was a short game as he was already naked.
His pride deflated, Bob clothed himself and sauntered down to the garage, possibly hoping to take a leisurely drive… except his car was missing. This wrinkled his brain for about 3.14159265359(etc.) seconds until he remembered that his car had been destroyed in the Strawberry-Cheesecake-Titty-Twister-Flavor-O-The-Month-Inter-Galactic-Golf-And-Anal-Probing-Tournament of yesterday. Bob shrugged his listless shoulders and muttered, “figures.” He let out a bellowing sigh and proceeded to march right back into his house, now feeling ever so blue. He actually quite enjoyed feeling blue. It wasn’t pink, nor red, and he just knew in his heart of hearts that blue was his color.
His pseudo-depression could only last so long, and with that being said I feel that it is safe to mention that Bob is feeling just fine now. Bob wanted to do something fun, but had know earthly or outer spacely idea what it could be. He pondered, cogitated, and pontificated advanced theorems of geometry, and this was fun for about a nanosecond, which then led to him singing the theme to the Jetson’s… in pig latin.
“Eetmay eorgeGay etsonJay, ishay oybay Elroyay, aughterday udyJay, aneJay ishay ifeway.”
He giggled like a toddler that was way too proud of himself, but still found himself only momentarily amused. There was no doubt about it. Bob was in a bind of a pickle. He tried everything he could think of: twelve step programs, motivational books on tape, NyQuil, DayQuil, Peter Quill, but none of it helped. He was ored with a capital Bay.
Bob mused while trying to break the Guinness World Record for longest sustained hand jive, “Why do I exist? I never harm anybody and I just wanna have fun. Yet all I ever do is stay home and do nothing. The Grim Reaper knocked on my door, said ‘hello there, are you up for a game of pinocle and a bit of death?’ and we sat down for some tea and a bonus game of croquet. He’s a super chill dude, but he wouldn’t kill me as promised, but he’ll be back next Monday to play Risk with me, which is nice. Guests are fun and all, but other than next Monday I have no plans, no George Foreman grills and certainly no girlfriends or boyfriends, because at this point I just wanna be loved by somebody… anybody. I can’t afford cable TV nor the Internet and the sky is falling. Nobody even cares. Ripe tomatoes have replaced the fried green ones and the beautiful sunlight valley is now ten different shades of doo-doo brown. Time is wasted on the meager. Kanye West is a fucking travesty, and nobody even cares. Non-athletic people keep wearing funky bright ugly athletic shoes and Pee-Wee Herman will always be forced to sit in the front row of the movie theaters. What does anything even mean anymore? Why do we exist? What’s the point of it all?”
Perspiring profusely, yet still determined to keep the hand jive going, Bob continued, “perhaps I am just rambling on. Maybe this is all I have, just my stupid little thoughts alone in my stupid little house living my stupid little life. Perhaps stupid was my last name. I may even come from a long line of Stupids. Honestly, that would explain so much.”
Bob’s ego was fueled. He was super pumped, so much so that he didn’t even realize that he had not filmed his epic record breaking hand jive performance. He didn’t give a flying fuck, he was amped to the nth degree times pi (see what I did there?). Bottom line, Bob was beyond happy now. His brain was boiling over just like he liked it to. He celebrated by tossing his magazines anywhere and everywhere. Down the hall, through now broken windows, no place was sacred nor immune to his brain addled magazine tossing rampage.
A rap-a-tap-tap emanated from his door, and with a stark curiousity that rivaled the famed George’s, Bob answered the call. It was the Lawyer-Man! A ghastly prick of a fellow that wanted to discuss a legal matter involving Bob’s now missing car, possibly destroyed in the Strawberry-Cheesecake-Titty-Twister-Flavor-O-The-Month-Inter-Galactic-Golf-And-Anal-Probing-Tournament of yesterday that Bob won first prize in the probing category. Yay Bob, we always knew you could do it (insert thumb’s up emoji)! It was probably a good idea to let the readers know that Bob was not fond of Lawyer-Man. This likely stemmed from a dementia addled hero’s belief that all lawyers were secretly lizard aliens in human like shape that wore skin suits to pass as one of us. Bob talks a lot of shit, but the lizard alien lawyer thing was kind of legit. Ultimately, the only point that actually mattered was that Bob didn’t like the Lawyer-Man. He didn’t like him today, nor yesterday, and was not likely to send him a Christmas card with a lovely fruit cake anytime in the near ever.
Bob thought to himself, “the best way to get rid of the Lawyer-Man was to kill him, cook him and fast food him to other lawyers.” Then Bob started thinking of disturbingly creative ways to get rid of all sorts of people. Horrible, dark, totally wrong ideas, too terrible to put into words, but just know that if you are a penny pinching late fee loving Librarian, you may want to steer clear of Bob, he’s got some ill runny poopy in store for you, and it’s bad… like Donald Trump being inaugurated as the President bad. Seriously, librarians should just give Bob a wide berth, OK?
What this meeting all boiled down to was that the Lawyer-Man was working on a plan to get Bob locked up in a looney bin as non compos mentis (which was a fair point, in my honest estimation). His decision to try and talk Bob into willingly check into a mental facility may or may not have something to do with the long and sordid tale that could only be labeled as the Strawberry-Cheesecake-Titty-Twister-Flavor-O-The-Month-Inter-Galactic-Golf-And-Anal-Probing-Tournament of yesterday. Lawyer-Man wasn’t buying the story, which was good for Bob, because if our psycho pal thought he could make money off of his ignoramus story, whoa nelly would we be in for some shit. In the middle of his spiel, the Lawyer-Man was rendered unconscious by a swift punch to the face. Bob tossed the lawyer’s nappy time body into the trunk of his Jaguar (of course) and called a wrecker to pick him up and tow him home.
It was time for Bob to take his medicine. Well, he called it medicine, but truth be told they were just dog biscuits… Scooby Snacks, if you will. Bob was a fan of a variety of animal foods: sugar cubes, fish food, cat food, but he really loved dog food with a passion that was like Don Juan De Doggoe. He ate 2 Scooby Snacks, drank a glass of Flint Michigan water, and then reluctantly went back to his life as a descendent of a long line of stupids.
He tried his hand at singing again, but couldn’t find a tune that fit his mood. He sang “Jingle Bells”, “Blister in the Sun”, and even the Swahili version of the Scooby Doo theme, but it didn’t help. Bob stared lifelessly at his grandfather clock. It had been a long day, at least 23 hours and 33 minutes of one so far. Bob had only been awake for a pubic hair over 7 hours of this alleged 23 hour and 33 minute day, but we won’t bother him with these details. He’s already a fragile hot mess as it is. The Scooby Snacks were doing their job. The cows were in the pasture. The rooster was asleep. The ducks had all settled their down. Even if these things were only true in Bob’s mind, it didn’t really matter. Bob was asleep and this was a perfect opportunity to silently escape. Sweet dreams you beautiful bastard.
The end… well, for at least until Bob woke back up again.
