I am an asshole

A friend told me that I am too cynical. He believes I think the worst about people, places and things. He was very smug about his observation, as if he had made some grand discovery that escaped the notice of everyday man. Of course, I am cynical about life; just as birds fly, fish swim, and the ACLU harbors terrorists, I see the worst in existence. It is my natural inclination, if you will.

However, upon further introspection, which took about thirty seconds of thought--fifteen of which dealt with killing squirrels, I concluded it wasn't cynicism alone that informed my being. I not only see the worst, I actively hope for it. In other words, I take joy in the failings of others, if only to prove my cynicism correct. The foulability of man isn't enough; his outright and utter failure is what I desire. Then again, that's just me.

Go to Hell

Moral Quandary

Is it wrong to want to hit this? The more I learn about her case, the more I want to lick in-between her toes.

Go to Hell

Confederacy of One

I am the Ignatius Reilly of the twenty-first century. Many of you may not know who Ignatius is. Simply stating that he is the literary equivalent of Bob is not enough. Mr. Reilly, whose creation may very well have resulted in Toole's (the author) suicide, is a literary character without equal or merit. He is a loathsome, egocentric madman who sees modernity as hopeless corrupt; he fights against the oppression of everyday by virtue of sleeping, eating, watching cartoons and reveling in his flatulence. Yet, even this bloated messiah of intemperance has good points; sadly they are buried underneath a labyrinth of lard and intellectual nihilism.

I don't particularly like the character, but I can't deny we are very much alike. I spend my days in self-exile, pondering the inevitable end of civilization, bemoaning the barbarians within our own gates. Too, I watch an unhealthy amount of cartoons, consume an even unhealthier amount of food and suffer from insufferable bouts of gas--my pyloric valve is a difficult mistress. Our greatest similarity is not surprising, at least for those who have read the book and know anything about my person, we both find work to be a pedestrian cause; it is an end to reason, not a means to an end.

I do admit that finding my entire psyche, the entirety of my being, encapsulated in a little under four hundred pages is a bit depressing. Though, much like the book, my life consists of a series of comedic disasters, however; unlike Reilly, I am not destined to escape the mono-color walls, no, Bob is clearly set for a long stay in the ward of mental delving.

There truly is a Confederacy of Dunces that stands in my way; it is a Confederacy of one--me.


Go to Hell

Bob & Allah Approve of this Message

Have you heard about the new Muslim Lifestyle Network? I am sure it is flagship show "How did we only manage to kill 3,500 people on 9/11?" will resonate with the American public. Though, I am not so sure about "Talking Puppet Jihad" or their controversial reality show, "Suicide Bombers: The New Hebrew Holocaust." Then again, I don't have my finger on the pulse of America, or in this case a gun to our collective heads. One can only hope that it will be as uplifting as BET--the network that put the nig back into black. (Looping gangsta rap videos throughout the day that even the corrupter of all that is good--MTV--won't run.)

While on the subject of intolerance, I wanted to give a hearty congrats to South Park for tackling the controversial issue that is Paris Hilton. She is the most unfairly maligned of the psedo-celebrity whores. Can a girl suck-start a Harley and still be an untalented rich bitch? Paris Hilton proves both facts are not mutually exclusive, time and again.

All this talk about Paris Hilton reminded me of this article on abortions gone badly. Death--both that of the child and mother-- is an adverse side effect, obviously. But really, isn't the alternative much worse: To take responsibility for ones actions and give birth to a child. It is good to know that feminism is alive and well.

Go to Hell

This post is dedicated to Ken Jennings. The streak might be over (damn you H&R Block) but his legacy will never die. He will be forever known as the second greatest Mormon superstar. (Steve Young is first)

Human Ingenuity

The clock reads 2:35 am and I almost didn't poop. It is a common occurrence for Bob to wake up and take an early morning bowel constitutional. Usually it is a painless affair, or relatively painless--a diet consisting of Taco Bell and White Castle does tend to get a bit "messy." I had hoped to sit down, grunt a few dozen times and drop brown napalm on the porcelain jungle, however; that wasn't to be the case.

Earlier in the night, before going to bed, I had defecated and defecated well. I used the customary half a roll of toilet paper, as my hairy inner buttock requires heavy maintenance and eternal vigilance, unbeknownst to me this was not ordinary toilet paper, it was 2-ply. In other words, the sheets were double thick and, as I learned several hours later, much more likely to clog a toilet.

I am not one to be prepared in life; much of my existence consists of coasting by on my good looks, charm and rapier-like wit. Coasting is not the right word, actually. Drowning in my inequities would be more precise. Anyway, I never before saw fit to purchase a toilet plunger. A clogged toilet happened to other people--Democrats for example--but the porcelain god was full of tribute and ready to "give" back. I didn't know what to do, where to turn to, or who to call. I couldn't go next door and borrow/steal the parent’s plunger, it was too late at night and last time I came over after midnight, mom threatened to shoot me in the balls. I considered driving to Wal-Mart or Kroger to buy a plunger but it was cold outside and shitting my pants (at least partially so) isn't terribly uncommon, so I prioritized warmth over personal hygiene. You will be glad to know that it didn't come to splattering my undies, instead something far worse happened.

Here is what I mean by clogged: the toilet was filled with urine, brown sludge and the odd piece of corn; it was a cornucopia of the human digestive and excretory systems. I decided to think outside the box and endeavor how one man--sans a plunger--could overcome a shit filled flotsam. Then it hit me, I would use my toothbrush to push the excess toilet paper through the pipes. It seems that a toothbrush wasn't designed for this process as it broke in two. I was out of ideas, and the shock of cold water from the bowl considerably expedited my need to shit. It was now, never or in my pants. I decided to give it one last try and stuck my entire fist into the hole, which seemed to fit perfectly, and hoped to make a plunger out of my arm. It sort of worked. Ten minutes and three wet farts later I managed to unclog the toilet with only the aid of my child-sized fist. My colon was overjoyed.

The lesson from this incident: Don't shake hands with Bob.


Go to Hell

Be Thankful for what you don't have--namely, my life

Christmas is just around the corner. It is a time of happiness, a season to appreciate what we have, and in my case, what I don't have. Here are the haves and have nots of Bob.


The Haves


The early stages of heart disease

An ass that itches in perpetuity

Two Devotees of the Hamster God--Me

Erectile Function

A fear of alien abduction--Damn you Signs

The Devil Goat who lives underneath my trailer

A beautiful, bountiful pair of man teats

A penis

An eerie similarity to Ignatius Reilly (Thanks for pointing that out, Harty)


Have Nots


A girlfriend/money guzzling whore

The love of my family

A life

Worthwhile friends (I kid, not really)

A ten inch penis, though I am almost a third of the way there

An enlarged clitoris

Dead Bodies buried underneath my trailer (There is always next year)

A job

Money

Self-Respect

Hope for the Future

The ability to write functional sentences

The capability to properly regulate my glucose levels

15 Gigs of Porn (I deleted it during a moment of moral weakness)



As you can see, I live a full life, too bad it is mostly filled with shit.

Go to Hell

I am the black sheep of my mother's family

The feast did commence and the relative did not die. I am overjoyed with the former and oblivious about the latter. I learned long ago to ignore the Jerry Springer portion of my lineage. Though the story of my cousin versus the moving vehicle must be told, if only for cheap laughs.

My cousin, let's call him Stupid Fuck, earned $80.00 for doing yard work for a neighbor. Stupid Fuck was overjoyed to have $80.00 since he typically only gets money from terrorizing school children for lunch money. Much like me, Stupid fuck has never worked--it is a genetic trait we inherited from my deceased grandfather/grifter. Of course, he is only seventeen years old, so there is still hope. (He is actually hopeless. I just needed a segue into detailing his age) This precocious teenager decided to spend his money in a frivolous manner, not unlike most of his peers, however; instead of buying CD's, pornography, or oral favors from a homeless fat chick named Shelia, Stupid Fuck purchased a fifth of whiskey and fish scales. I know what you’re thinking, what is a fifth of whiskey? Well, it is enough liquor to make a stupid teenager believe that speeding cars are of no matter. Oh, and though you probably already know, fish scales is what people in the know (drug dealers and junkies) call cocaine/crack. It was disconcerting to learn the term "fish scales" from my mother, but isn't that what mom is there for--to teach their sons drug terminology from the streets. Anyway, the next question that comes to mind is where did a teenager find access to a fifth of Jack Daniels and crack cocaine? The answer is painfully obvious: His older brother bought it, with his mother's consent of course.

Aside: A parenthetical departure; a digression.

Before I continue with this tale of drugs, liquor and the family bonds that unite them, there is something funny, or least I found it painfully funny, to point out. Right before my mother revealed the details about what happened to my younger cousin, she spent several minutes praising his older brother--the same older brother who purchased the crack and whiskey. She gushed over his many successes: He makes nearly $25.00 an hour; he owns a television that, to quote my mother, "Is bigger than a big screen ever could be. It must cost over $10,000"; he has fathered four children, all with the same woman; and he owns a house. Now, this isn't the first time she has praised my dubious relatives, she often states how embarrassed she is by how little I have done with my own life, but in this instance her timing couldn't be more ironic or comedic. Obviously, I am a failure by comparison; one can only hope that someday I will grow up and buy Issy, my eight year old little brother, crack and whiskey.

Anticlimactic Ending: You already know he lives

After drinking whiskey and smoking crack with his older brother, Stupid Fuck decided to do what addicts do best: He loitered throughout town. Not satisfied with simply being a drug-addled pedestrian, Stupid Fuck sought out the open road. Sadly, Stupid Fuck failed to realize that the middle of the street--the most congestive street in town, on the day before Thanksgiving--was the domain of motor vehicles, not high teenagers. He ended up playing chicken with a car doing forty miles per hour; not surprisingly, Stupid fuck lost, he lost real bad. He did survive and only suffered a mild concussion and possible broken jaw. What is it they say about small miracles, oh wait, I remember, they are reserved for stupid fucking morons.

I pointed out to mother that Stupid Fuck was in a good deal of trouble--as was his older brother. The hospital took a blood and urine sample because they were concerned about his racing heartbeat. (Apparently the stimulant, crack cocaine, trumps the depressant, a fifth of Jack Daniels) I am fairly certain that this information will be shared with the police who are investigating his man-on-car accident. Mother was quick to point out that Stupid Fuck would never "sell out" his brother. Not to mention the fact that he has never been convicted (though charged several dozen times) of any crime. He wouldn't receive jail time.

It is good to know that my mother, Stupid Fuck's aunt, is concerned with his welfare. We wouldn't want him to learn that drinking, smoking crack and running towards moving vehicles is a bad idea.


Go to Hell

No Turkey for Bob

I am reading a British horror anthology, while clad only in my tighty whities, when the phone rings. It was my land line, which means it could only be a couple different people--my mother or Issy, both of whom I don't particularly like. However, I have a thing about ringing phones; I have to fucking answer them. The following is a transcript of that phone call and the subsequent conversations that occurred thereafter.

Cranberry hits the fan

Ring, Ring, Ring

Bob: Hello

Mom: You can have a piece of the pumpkin pie that is on the counter. Thanksgiving is off. Go to Frisch's with that bastard father of yours. She begins to sob and quietly lament her life. (Actually, she isn't being terribly quiet and I overhear mom state how miserable meeting my dad and having children made her.)

Bob: What happened?

Mom: I threw the newspaper at the mother fucker and he yelled at me. Can you believe him? He gets mad because I tossed the paper at his head and told him to shut the fuck up, the nerve of that man.

Bob: Yea...ummmm...yea...Dad was being totally unreasonable. I hate when he is like that--as if he deserves a modicum of courtesy and respect. So, can we still have Thanksgiving?

Mom: No, I will never cook for that mother fucker again. That old cocksucker can die.

Bob: Yea, we should lynch him, but that has nothing to do with cooking Thanksgiving dinner for me.

Mom: Go to Frisch's.

Bob: I am not going to eat Thanksgiving dinner at some restaurant.

Mom: You could stand to miss a meal or hundred. Thanksgiving is off. Click

Bob: No Thanksgiving for Bob.


Let the Gluttony Commence

Ten Minutes Later

Ring, Ring, Ring

Bob: Hello

Mom: I am going to cook, but don't expect us to eat together. I will give you a plate to take home with you.

Bob: Can I get several plates?

Mom: You are such a fat ass. Will you stay away if I give you leftover food for later?

Bob: Leftover? I was planning on eating it all at once. It will be an orgy of turkey and stuffing, resulting in an explosion of cranberry.

Mom: You will be dead in ten years. Pick up your food tomorrow at noon and don't come back. I can't stand any of you.

Bob: Works for me.


Next Time on Jerry Springer: Dead Relatives and Why Bob Killed Them

Five hours later

Ring, Ring, Ring

Bob: Hello

Dad: Your worthless cousin was in an accident. He was hit by a car. He will probably die. Your mother probably won't be back tonight. The little bastard was probably high and drunk like your aunt. (My mother's sister) Her family is pathetic.

Bob: Yea, that is really sad. What about Thanksgiving dinner?

Dad: I guess it is off.

Bob: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! He better die, or at the very least, be paralyzed for life.

Dad: We can only hope.


Go to hell

Hermeneutic of Suspicion

I don't really have anything profound or funny to say, but I do want to recommend a book. It is a very entertaining read and fairly informative, too. The author, Ann Coulter, is guilty of grandiloquence, but that is an excusable fault and one that is based less on her character and has more to do with graduating from Columbia.

The book is written with a specific agenda--Liberals are guilty of treason--so it might offend some of you, however; I guarantee it will make you think. I thoroughly enjoyed it, if only for the bountiful supply of clever insults to levy against my Communist friends. (I kid--the friends in question are Marxists) Here is a selected quote from Treason:

"They hate us? We hate them. Americans don't want to make Islamic fanatics love
us. We want to make them die. There's nothing like horrendous physical pain to
quell angry fanatics. So sorry they're angry--wait until they see American
anger. Japanese kamikaze pilots hated us once, too. A couple of well-aimed
nuclear weapons go their attention. Now they are gentle little lambs."

I want you read to this book because it presents an alternative historical narrative. (And it made me giggle) It may not be completely accurate, though most textbooks and historical records aren't either. The point is that one shouldn't accept something as truth simply because the media or academia says so--they tend to be biased just like you and me. Get all the facts, divorce them from the opinions, and go with what is left. (I was going to write "what is right" but that sounded too partisan) Or you could just ask me what to believe; I am the source of all knowledge and minister of moral clarity.


Go to Hell

It is only Blood Money

The plot thickens and continues to unfold like a bad novel written by Danielle Steele, edited by John Grisham and published in conjunction with Tom Clancy. The United Nations has no creditability whatsoever.

At best, it ignored the windfall of money that Saddam made off of the Oil for Food Program; at worst, it condoned and supported this financial treachery. Keep in mind that Saddam used this money to support the families of Palestinian suicide bombers. Also, these funds went towards the purchase of munitions from the French and Russians, which were later used to kill his own people and are currently being used, by the remnants of the Baath party, to kill American soldiers. Oh and let us not forget the several billion dollars Saddam and company pocketed for personal prosperity and to fund future weapon programs--those pesky WMDs keep coming up.

It is good to know that the U.N. serves the interests of totalitarian dictators, Jacques Chirac, Vladimir Putin, Communist China, terrorists and virtually everyone else but THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. It is little wonder that this organization failed to give its undivided support for the War in Iraq. It was too busy supporting Saddam in Iraq.

The United States has been going it "alone" long before this war began; we were just the last ones to realize it.


Go to Hell