The Adventures of Bob

In a nondescript city, there’s a nondescript street, with a nondescript house, with a nondescript car in a nondescript garage, owned by a nondescript man who has a nondescript wife, and they both have two nondescript children and a nondescript dog, and they all eat nondescript food and watch nondescript TV shows. The husband works at a nondescript job, the kids attend a nondescript school, the wife has a nondescript affair with the nondescript poolman (this nondescript house has a nondescript pool). All in all, their lives are completely nondescript.

Fortunately, this story doesn’t involve any of that. ‘Cuz in a different city, an exciting city, there’s a cool street with this really bizarre house (it’s shaped like crusty underwear) and an old souped-up Edsel (renamed a Bobsel) in the garage and it’s owned by a really odd dude with funky hair. He ain’t married, has no kids, no pets, and can’t watch TV ‘cuz the cathode-ray tube always explodes around him. He doesn’t work ‘cuz every month a check arrives in his mail (the return address mentions The Bad Luck Research Institute of New Jersey) and his primary source of sustenance usually involves "Deep Fat Frying". He doesn’t have a pool, but he did carry on an affair with the poolman (until he found out that the poolman wasn’t a woman).

So, basically, he’s an interesting (if albeit stupid) guy.

And his name is Bob.

Wow, how’s that for an intro?

Anyway, now I’ve gotta move on to the... the... um.... binary?... booty?... buddy?... hold on, lemme get my English book... hmm... mm-hmm.... ah, here it is, the BODY of the story. Yes. Quite. So, yeah, I’m gonna do just that, right after these messages from my sponsor.

"Do you often get horny in public? Does the mere thought of a humanoid-shaped object get your juices flowing? Well, then what you need is Sex. Yes, Sex, clinically proven as an aphrodisiac and a cure for the medical condition called NGA (Not Getting Any). Nine out ten drunken rednecks recommend Sex as a happy, wholesome family activity. And wait, there’s more... Sex now comes in three flavors: vaginal, oral, and anal, each with its own particular flavor and odor. And Sex isn’t just for couples; for even more fun, try inviting along family and friends. Or, if you’re caught in a bind, Sex can even be enjoyable when you’re alone. And if you’re not sure how to do Sex properly, there are many experts down on Sunset that are more than willing to assist for a reasonable fee. Sex: Kid tested, mother approved. Marketed by Pfizer."

Back to the story. This particular story takes place at a monumental point in Bob’s existence. See, at the ripe old age of ::cough cough cough!!::, Bob finally went through puberty. As such, he began noticing things like Baywatch, Victoria’s Secret Catalogue’s, and Martha Stewart (hey, he’s new at this). After waking up, breaking his leg twice in the process, he noticed that his voice had changed, he sweated more, and he had hair where there wasn’t hair before (it had all burned off in yesterday’s explosion). So, after consulting 73 porn sites and a medical journal, Bob decided that today was the day he was going to go out and get a girlfriend. After all, how hard could it be?

He immediately posted an ad in the classified section of the newspaper: "I just went through puberty and want a girlfriend. I have a small penis, but that’s not important, right?" He got 244 replies, six of which were letter-bombs, and they all said the same thing: "Wrong." Worse yet, none of them had a return address (except one of the letter bombs, but it was so badly burnt in the explosion that it wasn’t legible).

Not the type to be discouraged, the ever resourceful Bob decided to go hang out at a singles bar. He noticed a rather attractive woman sitting by herself, so he sat next to her and bought her a drink. They chatted back and forth for a while, finding that they both have similar interests, similar tastes in people, and similar wardrobes (they both wore the same outfit every day of their lives). And, to top things off completely, they both thought that "Ernest Saves Christmas" was one of the most beautiful, heartwarming films ever.

Bob thought that things were going rather well, especially after the fiasco with the personal ad. He turned to the bartender to order another couple of drinks; while his back (actually, it was the left side of his body) was turned, another guy (who wasn’t nearly as ugly) walked up, whispered one of the standard "I don’t have herpes" pick-up lines in her ear, and slipped her some rufees. When Bob turned back, he saw the woman going out to the other guy’s car.

"Ah," Bob said to himself, "she’s consulting with that nice man over there about whether she thinks she’s good enough for me. What an angelic girl! I truly love her with all my heart! She’ll be back, definitely!!"

Bob waited for seven hours. Finally, he downed the two drinks he had long-ago bought and left the single’s bar, still single. As he walked back to his crusty-underwear-house, in the rain, tears streamed down his face. When he got home, he tossed the onion he had been slicing into the blender, added some A-1 Steak Sauce, some flour, and half of a hotdog; turning on the blender resulted in the creation of a Famous Bob’s Yum-Yum Shake (soon to be on sale at McDonald’s everywhere). He downed the shake (taking two years off his life in the process... but, man, is it ever worth it, laws yes!) and began working on the pack of Altoids that are necessary to remove the taste from his mouth before the odor causes his head to melt again.

During the process of packing more and more Altoids into his mouth, Bob remembered the girlfriend thing. After rinsing his mouth and intestinal tract with some sulfuric acid (necessary steps, otherwise the shake could presumably mutate in his colon and terrorize the populace), Bob decided to go see his oh-so-worldly-knowledgeable friend, Oggle.

Bob jumped up from his sticky couch grabbed his car keys. Within hours, he had managed to get his car started (the gooklectic stratzeloid got too large of an initial charge from the primary fuzdle drive and had to re-shift into transportation mode, which shorted out the main master system and had to reinitialize... I told you this car was souped-up!). Anyway, the Bobsel finally started and Bob was on his way to Oggle’s laboratory.

As he went, a lot of bad, violent, bloody stuff happened to him, like his car exploded twice (for some reason, but the Italian and Japanese mafia have him on their hit lists), his bladder burst, an anti-missile missle lost trajectory and slammed into his car, and the Death Star misfired, nailed his gut, and the resulting shockwave blew him to Indonesia, where he got mixed up with a lot of other violent adventures, but that’s another story that’ll just have to wait.

Anyway, where was I...? Oh, yes, Bob was having sex... oh, wait... no, sorry, I was having sex; Bob was just arriving at Oggle’s lab. Y’see, Oggle liked to fiddle around with, like, computers and stuff. A lot of the time it blew up, often in Bob’s hand, and also often spewing mutation-causing chemicals everywhere (Bob got turned into a newt once, and went on to co-star with Sigourney Weaver in a really kickass movie). Bob walked into the lab just in time to hear Oggle’s high, annoying voice belting out curses like they were scripture.

"Slippin’ rippin’ dang fang rotten zarg barg-a-ding-dong!" Oggle was screeching.

Bob found him standing behind a large sphere with stout cylinders poking out around the sides. "What’re you doing?" Bob asked.

"I’ve been trying to find a way to use human waste for nuclear fusion," Oggle said. "So far, all I’ve managed to make are Spice Girls."

"Oh, that’s terrible," Bob said.

"Don’t you think I know that?!?" Oggle exclaimed. "So now I have to dismantle the damn thing."

"Why?" Bob said. "You might want to try experimenting with it. Put some semen in and create some interns."

"Hmm..." Oggle said. "You may be on to something... maybe if I injected the chamber full of hot air I can make some more politicians..."

"Why would you want to do that?" Bob asked. "Let’s try this... put some silicone in and create some Hawaiian Tropics girls..."

"All right, all right," Oggle said. "The joke’s kinda dead."

"Yeah, but it reminded me of why I came here," Bob said.

"What, you didn’t come to hear the melodious sound of my voice?"

Bob snorted. "I need you to help me get a girlfriend."

"Aha," Oggle said. "Well, you’re lucky... nobody knows more about women than I do."

Bob nodded. "I thought as much."

"Well, yeah," Oggle sniffed. "So, what can I do for you?"

Bob thought for a minute. "Well, since we all know that computers are the answer to everything, can you check for an ideal mate for me with computer-dating?"

"I’ll do that right now," Oggle said. He rushed over to his computer and loaded up his Love Calculator program. He entered the word "Bob" in one selection box and the phrase "Women" in the other. After a nanosecond of calculation, the computer read "Probability: 3%".

Oggle made a wry smile. "Uh... oh, you’re a lucky one, you are!" Oggle said. "It says here that... uh... you’re compatible with... uh... Cindy Crawford!"

"Wow!" Bob said. "Really? I know... I know... I’m a stud."

"Right, right, of course," Oggle said. "You know... for a hundred bucks... I could put you in touch with her..."

"All right!" Bob said, pulling his wallet and sorting through the bills contained inside. "Would you want that in tens, twenties, fifties, or just one hundred dollar bill?"

Oggle made some odd noises, then whacked his forehead and said, "I’ll take it in twenties, thanks."

Bob pulled out five twenties and was about to hand it to Oggle when the laboratory door opened up and in walked in a wet dream... and right behind that (it ran around the lab screaming "Toilet cereal, toilet cereal!") was a lab-coat-coated woman. Bob’s jaw dropped. She had the perfect face, large breasts, the firmest, roundest ass you’ve ever seen (Author’s note: I know it’s a blatant sexist stereotype... who the hell cares?!?). She walked right up to Oggle and handed him some notebook papers.

"Here are the results of the tests, Dr. Oggle," the woman said.

"Thank you, Miss Bouncy," Oggle said. "Now go away."

Miss Bouncy nodded and left the lab. Bob scraped his jaw off the floor, grabbed some superglue, and reattached his jaw to the rest of his head. He then took a three-month vacation in Hawaii, where he got drunk and surfed every day, had sex with five different women every night, and partied and partied until a volcano erupted and blew up all of Hawaii and launched Bob out of the atmosphere, and he ricocheted off the Moon and crashed through the ceiling of Oggle’s lab. He brushed off the lava rock, dead skin, and moon dust, and said, "Wow-wee... didja see that?!?"

Oggle glanced around. "The ice cream man?"

"No, that woman!!"

"Uh... my mom?"

"Oh... your mom was just here?"

Oggle nodded. "Yeah... she just left."

"No, no, no..." Bob exclaimed. "You called her Miss Bouncy. She gave you some test results."

Oggle opened his mouth, but stopped himself. "That was three months ago!!" Oggle exclaimed.

"Oh, yeah..." Bob muttered. "I forgot about Hawaii and the explosion and hitting the Moon and all..."

"You took a trip to Hawaii without me??!?" Oggle screeched. "You bastard!!! You know, you did the same exact thing back with the neo-nazis at the gay singing club!"

"No I didn’t!" Bob said. "I stole one of the white hoods and they shoved a flaming cross up my ass! This was completely different!"

"Oh yeah..." Oggle said. "Sorry. I was mistaking real life for an episode of M*A*S*H."

Bob nodded. "That’s completely understandable."

"So, anyway, you were talking about Miss Bouncy?"

"Yes I was," Bob said. "You think you can... you know... put in a good word with her about me?"

"Why?" Oggle asked.

"Uh... because when I saw her I felt something get tight in my pants?"

Oggle pointed. "That was just the rabbit in your pocket."

Bob looked down and yanked the hare from his pants. "Oh, yeah," Bob said. He handed the bunny over to Oggle, who put it back in a cage and gave it an injection from a hypodermic needle. The rabbit promptly melted into tapioca pudding.

"Anyway," Bob said, "I think she’s a really nice person and I wanna get to know her better."

"You saw her for all of fifteen seconds and heard all of nine words emitted from her mouth," Oggle pointed out.

"Well, I don’t care!" Bob said.

"In real life, she’s a bitch who murders everyone that shows any sort of interest in her," Oggle continued to point out.

"Well, I don’t care!" Bob said.

"She has a raging case of herpes and I’m pretty sure she’s a drag-queen," Oggle continued- continued to point out.

"Well, I don’t care!" Bob said.

"She doesn’t shower or brush her teeth and she’s always eating onion-flavored potato chips," Oggle continued- continued- continued to point out.


"Well, I don’t care!" Bob said.

"She hates Pink Floyd, always shops at ‘The Gap’, and always orders the Rocky Mountain Oysters at Denny’s," Oggle continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued-shit this’s long- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- continued- etc. etc. etc. etc. to point out.

"Well, I don’t care!" Bob said.

"She hates ‘The Simpsons’," Oggle said, finally.

Bob gasped and fainted. He was in a coma for thirty years, and after he came out of it, he went insane, slaughtered all 97 billion people on the planet, then traveled back in time to fifteen seconds after he fainted. He materialized out of thin air right where Oggle was trying to revive Past-Bob. Future-Bob killed Past-Bob, causing one of those odd time/space quandaries and all of time ceased to exist, but Superman and a bunch of other guys came and kicked Green Lantern’s ass, and time restarted and everything proceeded as normal except for one difference, that being that Bob didn’t go into a coma for thirty years. Oggle slapped Bob awake.

"Hey, you okay?" Oggle said.

"I never wanna see Miss Bouncy again!" Bob exclaimed.

"That’s not a problem, I fired her a month after you left for Hawaii."

"Oh, that’s cool, then," Bob said. "I still have to get a girlfriend, remember?"

Oggle nodded. "I haven’t forgotten. In fact, I’ve managed to arrange for someone to meet you. Meet... Miss Flaunty."

A door opened, and the studio audience clapped as a scantily clad woman walked into the room, her hips swinging in a seven-foot arc. She stood underneath a spotlight and turned in circles several times, showing that, yes, she did have the world’s tightest wedgie.

"Wow," Bob said.

"Now, come sit over here," Oggle said, "and you get to ask her five questions-"

"Three questions," Sir Lancelot said.

"Right, three questions," Oggle corrected himself. "And when you’re done asking the three questions-"

"Five questions," Lancelot said.

Oggle looked at him. "No, it’s three questions."

"I know, but you were supposed to say ‘five questions’, and then I was supposed to correct you again."

Oggle pulled out a mallet and hit Lancelot in the head. "Somebody throw him in the garbage masher, okay?" Oggle said.

"All righty!" Luke said, running forward and grabbing the unconscious form of Sir Lancelot.

"This is some rescue," a bitchy voice said off in the distance.

Oggle sighed. "Anyway, let’s continue with the game... ‘Who Wants To Laugh At A Pathetic Retard Who Thinks He Has A Chance At Love?’ And here to host the game... Regis Philbin!"

Regis came in, smiled, and waved. "Hi, everybody, let’s play ‘Who Wants To Laugh At A Pathetic Retard Who Thinks He Has A Chance At Love?’!!"

"I already said that," Oggle said.

"You did?!?" Regis said. "You don’t say that... I say that! I’m Regis Philbin!!!"

"I’m sure you are, sir," Oggle said. "Let’s just get on with it, can we?"

"Right," Regis said. "Let’s play ‘Who Wants To Laugh At A Pathetic Retard Who Thinks He Has A Chance At Love?’!!"

Bob picked up the three cue cards and began asking the questions. "Question one," Bob said, "‘Would you ever go out with me?’"

Miss Flaunty just started laughing.

"Uh... okay..." Bob said. "Question two: ‘Would you ever consider going out with me?’"

Miss Flaunty laughed harder. The audience began joining in.

"Um... uh..." Bob stammered.

"Read the damn question!" Oggle hissed.

"Question three: ‘I don’t even have a snowball’s chance in hell?’"

Miss Flaunty fell from her chair, holding her gut. The audience was rolling in the aisles. Regis was bent over and slapping his knee.

"Man, you completely suck!" Regis said. "And you know I’m right... I’m Regis Philbin! Now, I’ve got to run, I’m having sextuple-bypass heart surgery."

"You need sextuple-bypass heart surgery?" Bob asked.

"No, but I wanna show up David Letterman," Regis said. "So long, loser!!!" Regis left. The audience left. Miss Flaunty left. Bob looked depressed.

"Oh, buck up, bucko!" Oggle said. "You’ll find the right person eventually!!"

"That’s bullshit and you know it," Bob said. "I’m gonna leave now."

Oggle nodded. "You do that. I have to fix up this mind-control formula for this bad-tempered lab mouse."

Bob walked out of Oggle’s lab/TV studio into the rain. He sat on a bus-stop bench and rested his chin on his hand. After an hour of sitting there, someone else joined him on the bench. Bob turned to look, and his heart skipped a beat.

His new bus-stop companion was a woman, short, long hair, wearing a simple dress and holding an umbrella. See seemed to be crying.

"What’s wrong?" Bob asked.

The woman sniffed. "Oh, it’s nothing..." she said. Her voice was soft and quiet.

"You seem distressed," Bob said. "What’s troubling you?"

The woman looked over at Bob and gave a weak smile. "Oh... I... I just broke up with my boyfriend," she said.

"Oh, I’m sorry," Bob said. "What happened?"

She sniffed again. "Well... he never really cared about what I thought or felt," she said. "I think he just wanted somebody that he could show off to people..."

Bob and this mystery woman chatted back and forth for almost five hours (the rain cleared up during that time). Pretty soon, they were sitting right next to each other and were holding hands.

"You know, it’s so odd," Bob said, "I don’t even know your name."

"Oh, I’m sorry," the woman said. "My name is Karen Wright."

"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wright. My name is Bob."



"Bob what?"


"Okay... Bob."

"Right, Bob."

Karen smiled. "Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you... Bob."

Bob smiled, inwardly excited. "Say... Karen... would you like to have... dinner... sometime?"

Karen’s smile vanished. "Dinner...? You mean... like a... date?"

"Yeah," Bob said. He smiled again.

"You mean... you’re not gay?" Karen asked.

"Well... no," Bob said.

Karen shrieked. "Get away from me, you monster!" she screamed. "Help! Help! Rape!!!" She began hitting Bob with her umbrella, then ran off, still screaming.

Bob just sat and watched her go, then realized he’d better run, too, when he heard an approaching siren. He ducked down an alleyway just as it began to rain again. Just as he emerged out the other side, a bolt of lightning came down and struck him. He blacked out.

Bob regained consciousness in Oggle’s lab. "What happened?" Bob asked.

"You got struck by lightning," Oggle said.


"But it’s had some very interesting side effects," Oggle said. "You went through a condition what we in the pseudo-sciences call ‘Anti-Puberty’. It’s when the body goes through a traumatic experience and loses all the effects of adolescense."


"Which means," Oggle continued, "that this story has completely come to a closure and won’t have any sort of continuing effects that will carry over into any other story."


"Which means the damn story’s over," Oggle continued- continued.


"Oh, dammit, just show the ‘The End’ thing," Oggle continued- continued- continued.


"I didn’t continue!" Oggle continued- continued- continued- continued.


"Stop it!" Oggle continued- continued- continued- continued- continued.





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