Bob, For No Good Reason

Bob's Burger

                             

One faithful morning I lay in wait for my alarm clock to shatter my blissful tranquillity, not that I was asleep but rather simply pleasantly content. I hate mornings, mostly because it means I have to go to work. Because it means I can't speak aloud about the confinement of my soul, the torture of my animal instinct being caged like all those poor lions in the zoo. Once proud & royal & majestic, now broken & castrated in their cages. The alarm continues to roar & scold me down to my very spine or what's left of it. I frantically pound the snooze button seeking asylum from its tyrannical reign & oppressive dictatorship over my peaceful & serene slumber. What's the snooze button all about anyway? I mean who the fuck in the history of fucking ever has been able to actually 'snooze' in the 3 damn minutes given by hitting that stupid fucking button anyway? What's the damn point if it just pisses you the fuck off right when you actually close your eye lids & begin to drift off only to have that damn thing shout at you again! Then the fucking thing gets louder like you didn't almost throw it against the wall the first damn time it went off! But I digress. Hmm I really have been feeling more & more that Bob has been a very bad influence on me. I mean my inner voice didn't used to use so much profanity, can it actually be that I'm getting worse by hanging out with Bob? Ahh that's preposterous! I mean I don't even invite the juvenile mooch along most times, he just appears randomly out of the blue like a damn dirty ninja maniac. Which makes me wonder, why do I tolerate such infringement upon my life? I mean I barely tolerate the alarm clock, why am I so permissive of Bob? Is there an underlying issue that requires my undivided attention? Some deep seated issue lurking beneath my carefully coordinated & compulsory compliant adherence to social norms? Well no time to consider any of that bullshit now Bob is banging on my door like a damn warrant officer trying to violate my absconding ass back to violent ass raping prison. So there he is at my door, unshaven & wearing torn up old jeans and a T-shirt advertising the 'First AME episcopal living spirit fellowship of the apostles on the mount of the holy commandment of the body of god & Christ's covenant to the faithful Shepard of the southern baptist congregation of the rapture to glory & grace church of the blessed servant of god' wow they really really need a shorter name! I ask Bob 'why on earth are you wearing that? Its obviously so old & tattered the church probably doesn't even exist anymore!' Bob replies:" eh I killed a guy wearing it cause he cut me off in traffic, so I cut his head off "my head drops to my chest in utter disgust, I just wanted one morning without senseless murder. That's all, just one single morning, not 100 not even 2 just ONE. One morning without some one being brutally killed for some stupid irrational reason of Bob's. I really hate being a witness to his rampages. But I ask in some foolish hope of a redeeming quality deep within Bob or at least a justification worthy of such a heinous act. why Bob why on earth do you find it necessary to wear the poor murdered mans clothes? To which Bob replies: "eh Indians wore their enemies scalp's I steal shit for no good reason" well that pretty much sums that argument up as a score one for Bob. I try to slip past Bob in a trifle as I squirm out a perturbed 'I'm late for work I've gotta go Bob'. But he shuts me down again, "heeey heey hey, slow down now, we have some important business to attend to, you promised to help me fix my Chevy, so this is neither the time nor the place to carry on like a lazy Mexican & pretend like you no speaky da English"  I shrivel a little as my testicles ascend into my abdomen & my butt cheeks quiver & tighten & my throat dries & chokes a little bit. I really don't know why I cower so much to Bob, oh yeah its his murderous tendencies, that's why. Most people who challenge Bob end up dead in the most gruesome ways. So there we ended up in Bob's back yard drinking some rot gut home made whiskey & chewing some black powder chew arguing the pros & cons  of a blow job while drunk. The pros mostly being along the basic lines that its a blow job. The con's range from how god awful your judgment can be while drunk to god knows what she might do with your precious seed once she's been blessed with it. I mean its kinda wrong morally & ethically that a women can just do what ever she wants with your seed as if you have no say  what so ever! I mean as a tax payer I have the right to voice opinions on how my money is spent after I pay my taxes. As an employer I have the right to demand certain things after I've paid wages to an employee. Hell even as a bank robber I have the ability to kick someone's ass or at the very last tell them to shut the fuck up after pulling out my gun! Why on earth am I powerless when it comes to what happens next after I fire off a round of sack children in a girls eye? Its down right un-American!! I mean technically they belong to me until you purchase them right? I mean doesn't there have to be a legal release of ownership like receipt for a purchase? A bill of sale or title of transfer of ownership? I mean they can't just be her property now just because my jizz is in her body can it? I mean if my dog wonders in your yard you don't just say its yours now, its still my damn dog. The way Bob & I came to a careful but conscientious consensus on the matter is as follows. If I send out a reconnaissance team out to surveil a women's eye, forehead, throat, asshole or uterus, or anywhere else on her body or person, for that matter, & they get captured in the process, well execution is our right as the commanding officer, if you will, of said reconnaissance team. That's how it was done in the cold war & damnit & we won the fuckin hell outta that shit so why start changing shit now? Sometimes Bob & I see eye to eye on things, odd. Anyhow Bob decided to test this theory out on my boss, a real sweet piece of ass, but a huge cunt at the same damn time.  Bob kicks in the door to my office like a swat team about to arrest a cop killer or something, I'm behind him like a the detectives that follow. He busts two guys in the head just for jumping out of their chairs in shock & disbelief, then drop kicks a secretary in the tits for trying to call security. Before I can ask everyone to remain calm Bob already has his Wang out & is aiming it right at my boss, Alicia. She tried to run for the door frantically, as I assume she knew Bob's priapic hard on was meant for her. She failed miserably, as Bob fiercely rips open her blouse to expose her substantial tittays. For your own personal awareness tittays are titties but only way better. Bob & I have had numerous debates over which happen to be better & what exactly constitutes tittays. But as this is my story I render Bob's opinion irrelevant & declare that my boss Alicia has an exceptional pair of tittays. So Bob turns into the mad jacker waving his fully erect priapism around like a flag until he splooshes all over Alicia's bountiful & succulent tittays. Exhausted & spent he recoils back into civilized mode, which for Bob is a lot like pissed off crazy for a normal person. There I am left to explain who this insane person is & what he's doing here after he curls up like a possum in the corner of Alicia's office. Out of my depth I attempt my version of an explanation with meek apologies. As Alicia wipes Bob's babies off her enormous mammaries she scolds me like a child. Bob suddenly awakens from his ejaculation induced stupor only to wham again all over Alicia's already soaked huge melons. As she screams Bob aims for her eyes with a demented sense of accomplishment in his sadistic expression. The grossness of ejaculate flying through the air all around me causes me to black out again. I come to at a crummy dinner across from Bob. I seem to remember a similar flash back with Bob & I ending up at a dinner, hmm deja vu. Well again I awaken with blood & guts all about, I assume I'm fired or maybe just out of work as probably most of my co workers are dead. Well I don't even know why I ask anymore, but as Bob eats an enormous burger I ask why Bob why? I could have been at work letting another dreary day crawl its way to completion but instead I play party to yet another gruesome set of murders, so in hopes of ever finding out if there's a purpose, a meaning to it all I beg Bob to tell me why? He chews his ridiculously large burger so slow its as if the burger is a magical sandwich that's endless. So slow I wish I could muster the strength to slap it from him, but I don't. Bob just slowly chews, swallows then softly & calmly replies:"eh no good reason"
                         The end