My Name is Bob


My name is Bob. I don’t think anybody has been named Bob since the 1950s. It’s kind of neutral — if not downright boring — but I’ll take it.

And, yes, I’m old. So old that the president when I was born was a guy named Harry.

Anyway, I’m the cousin of the alleged “brain” behind this operation and I’ve been “hired,” so to speak, to write something to make it look like someone cares about this website, to which I say, “Meh.” (Did I tell you I’m not getting paid jack to do this?)

Wait. My wife is calling from the overpriced food store that is now owned by the corporation that will soon own everything and has the same name as a long river through a rain forest in South America.

Let’s listen in to my side of the conversation. [That corporation and the government are listening to both sides.)

“No, we don’t need grapes. We bought some yesterday.” [Can you believe an ad for grapes just popped up on my screen?]
“Maybe I want some turkey or something.” [Yup; ad for turkey.]
“There are two left. I had one for breakfast.”
“Did you say Cheerios? No I don’t need Cheerios.” [Ad for oatmeal.]
“Yes. Real turkey, not the fake stuff.”
“That would be very nice. I should be able to eat turkey.”
“You’re a very nice person. Thanks.”

Now, where were we? Actually, that’s enough writing for today. I’m tired. Did I tell you I wasn’t getting paid for this?

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