Pathetic Bob's Easter Story

It was a balmy Saturday evening in April, and I was at the computer in my office overlooking the pool. I wasn’t actually looking at the screen, only using it as camouflage as I peered over the top observing Milo and Randy, the gay squirrels that rent the large oak tree in the backyard. They seemed to be in deep conversation with Pathetic Bob. I noticed Bob shake his head sideways several times while the squirrels bobbed their heads up and down.

Finally, Bob turned and walked away. He trotted around to pool to the French doors leading to my office. They were open so he came in and parked himself next to my chair. “Hey Bob,” I said. “I noticed you and Randy and Milo seemed to be having a discussion. What’s up?”

Bob swung his head back and forth again and laughed. “Those squirrels are—if you’ll pardon the pun—nuts. They were trying to get me to believe a story about a zombie rabbit. I mean Jeez Em, I’ve seen dead rabbits before, in fact, I’ve even eaten a few, but I have never seen a demised rabbit get up and hop away. Possums have fooled, but rabbits aren’t that clever. And get this Em, they say tomorrow, people are going to worship this dead rabbit and eat chicken eggs. Can you believe it? I know humans have strayed pretty far from reality, but come on, no one is this weird.”

“Crap,” I thought, “I really don’t want to get into this.”

“What to you think Em? Do people really believe in bunny zombies and magical eggs?”

Of course, I could have said, “No, the squirrels were screwing with you,” and left it at that. However, Bob is a pain in the ass, and I knew he would keep bugging me about the story. The next day was Easter, and I was sure he would hear something on TV, then he’d be ticked off I was less than forthcoming. I cursed myself and dove in.

“Well Bob, some people might believe in zombie rabbits and magical eggs, Heck, some people even believe in Rush Limbaugh, so anything is possible. My guess, though, is Milo and Randy got Christian story of the death and resurrection of Jesus mixed up with the Secular worship of money.”

“So what’s the real story?” (CONTINUED BELOW)

“Hell if I know,” I admitted. “It’s a story, stories change with time.”

“You do this every time I ask you a question with philosophical overtones. You weasel on me. You equivocate. Man up dude, give me the straight dope.”

“Like I said, I don’t know. But, what most Christians believe is that this man named Jesus was, in reality, three men in one. He was Jesus the regular guy, He was the all-knowing God, and he was sort of a nebulous figure called the Holy Ghost.”

“Cool,” said Bob. “A ghost story.”

I just looked at him. “May I continue?”

He nodded his head.

“So three-person Jesus walked around a small area in the Middle East preaching peace, love, understanding, and fish, gathering guys into his club along the way. The guys were called The Apostles.”

“Did they have tattoos?

“What?”

“Tattoos, did Jesus’ gang have them.”

“I don’t know, maybe. Anyway, as Jesus was wandering, he did some cool magic tricks and a lot of people he was the savior of the Jewish people because of his magic. Unfortunately for Jesus, a lot of other people thought he was a crackpot. Many of the people who thought that belonged to the religious hierarchy of the day and others were in government positions. When you have powerful religious nut and government officials pissed at you, your days are numbered. To make a long story short, Jesus was a marked man, and soon found himself on trial.”

“What did they bust him for?”

“I don’t know, failure to yield I think. Anyway, Jesus goes on trial, and he’s found guilty. Punishment in those days was pretty severe, and they gave Jesus the death sentence. But guess what?”

“What?”

“Jesus didn’t care. He knew all along he was going to get railroaded and killed. In fact, he was happy about it. So, they nailed Jesus to a cross, and when he didn’t die right away, they stuck him with a spear. After he died, his friends buried him in a cave. According to the story, after three day lying dead in a cave, Jesus comes back to life, roles away the stone blocking the cave entrance, and walks out.”

“Did he look like a zombie?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Anyway, Jesus hangs around for a few days, and then he flies up into the sky. End of story.”

“Well, what about the rabbits?”

“They were fruitful and multiplied.”

Bob thought for a while and finally said, “Hmmm…I’m hungry. You want some eggs?”

Read more!

Pathetic Bobonomics

Pathetic Bob came into my office a little while ago and with great sarcasm said, "Oh, excuse me, I see you're on the computer again. You must need another used door or some glass tiles, and you're scouring Craig's List to see if some poor wretch has fallen on hard times and is selling off his stuff so you can profit from his misery." That hurt, mainly because I have been scouring Craig's List for cheap stuff to help reduce the cost of all the remodeling Mrs. Em has me doing. However, this time, I was actually writing. "Actually, Bob, I'm writing," I said with a defensive tone in my voice. "In fact, I'm writing a story about you." "Hah," he scoffed, "You haven't written anything in more than a month. Your creativity is directed towards latex paint, mosaic tile, grout and power tools, and I know you can't multitask. You're either on Craig's List, Amazon, or watching porn." "I am writing," I whined. "And, I don't watch porn on the Internet. Why did you come in here? Just to screw with me? "Well, that would be way too easy. I came in to ask you about the bail out." "What bail out?" "You know, the big bail out the government is doing. Before Bush leaves office, he's bailing out all the white-collar criminals so they don't have to stay in jail before their trial. It's like when you bailed me out of jail in Laredo when me and the other dogs and Randy and Milo and their friends the flying squirrels tried to cross into Mexico illegally to distribute presents to Mexican dogs last Christmas. What I want to know is when do the trials start?" I shook my head and sighed. "First of all Bob, I did not bail you out of the Laredo jail; they made you leave because you were such a pain in the ass. I was the one who was almost thrown in jail, because you blamed the whole fiasco on me. Secondly, President Bush is not bailing criminals out of jail; he's giving them money so they can stay in business." It was Bob's turn to shake his head and sigh. "Let me see if I have this right, the government is giving money to all the businesses that are losing money?" "No Bob, it's only giving money to really big businesses that make a lot of money but still aren't making enough." "Why aren't they making enough money?" "Well, they wanted to make a lot more money, so they took risks with the money they had--much of which was the taxpayers' money--and they blew it. They made mistakes, big mistakes. Now, the guys who run those companies don't want to have to pay for their mistakes, and the government says, `Sure, fine, here's the key to the vault.'" "What about the smart companies that didn't make mistakes?" "They, my dear dog, are screwed. Hey, Bob, where are you going?" "I'm going to write a charter for my new business." "And that is...?" "I thing the First National Bank of Bob has a nice ring to it."

Read more!

Ed's Duck

There is a saying, “no good deed goes unpunished,” and I’m beginning to believe it might be true.

Last week, I was in a Walgreen’s drug store having some prescriptions filled. As I waited for my drug dealer to count out pills and put them in plastic containers, I walked around the store just to pass the time. Occasionally, Walgreen’s—whose motto is “Buy one for the price of two”—will have some merchandise marked down to prices that would actually be considered sale prices in the real world, and I found some of that merchandise in the pet section. There was a whole bin full of stuffed toys—the kind my dogs like to eviscerate—marked down to one or two dollars. The dogs that live with me have a toy box overstuffed with plush and rubber toys, but I recently noticed many of them had been gutted and only the hides remained, so I decided to refill their coffer.

I plucked out about 20 dollars worth of stuffed cats, footballs, squirrels, several rubber chickens, and one duck. Most of the toys had that little plastic squeaky thing buried inside them that is supposed to delight dogs when they chomp on the midsection, however, the duck had an electronic quack track. If the duck is bitten just right, it will quack for about 15 seconds. The tinny, electrified quack, quack, quack amused me, and I felt it would amuse the dogs.

I picked up my drugs, paid my supplier, and carried the drugs and toys out in a large sack. When I walked into the house, it was canine Christmas; Em Claus began dispensing toys amongst the pack, and great frivolity ensued. Although there was a bit of squabbling—Pathetic Bob ripped the green frog out of Zipper’s mouth, and Paco whined until Sophie gave him the yellow and blue snake—everything soon settled down. Everyone had a present with plenty more left over. The duck lay in the corner by the couch unnoticed, until Lily pounced on it. The force of her body landing on the duck’s midsection triggered a burst of quacking that took the dogs by surprise. They all froze. Then, all of them except Ed the basset hound ran away.

Of all the dogs that live here, Ed is undoubtedly the most goofy, fun-loving member of the pack, and when he heard the quacking, he went over to check out the duck…and fell in love. He bit it, it quacked at him, and he laughed. He did his basset dance, picked up the duck and discovered with just the right amount of pressure from his jaws, he could make the duck talk to him. He was in Ed nirvana. I was highly amused.

It is now a week later, and I am not amused anymore. Ed’s duck is driving me insane. He must have it at night when he sleeps with us on the bed; quack, quack, quack at two in the morning kills brain cells. I tried hiding it, but his whining was worse than the quacking. When I’m in my office trying to write, Ed and his duck are in there with me. Quacking does not inspire literary greatness. I took the battery out of Ed’s duck and rendered it mute, but Ed fell into a deep depression, and I simply could not bear to see him so sad.

Ed’s duck has new batteries installed in it, and whenever I try to sleep or write, I pour hot wax in my ear.

Read more!

Pathetic Bob's Olympic Review

Pathetic Bob slept in late this morning. When he finally came into the breakfast room, I said, “Morning Bob. You were sure burning daylight. Did you stay up and watch more of the Olympics last night?”

Before answering, he walked over and lapped up some water from his bowl and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Refreshed, he turned to me and said, “Yeah, I watched the women’s gymnastics, and I gotta say Em, it’s the stupidest sport this side of synchronized swimming and ice skating.”

“That’s pretty harsh Bob. I mean those women are well-trained athletes; what’s so stupid about the showcasing their skills?”

“Well first of all jock-strap breath, it’s supposed to be ‘women’s gymnastics,” but most of the competitors were nine-year-old girls in training bras. There seems to be some kind of unwritten law that if you have boobs you can’t compete. That’s why the United States lost.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m talking about; the U.S. was doing ok until the only ‘woman’ on the team tried to jump up on a wooden beam. She had big boobs Em; they unbalanced her, and she crashed. Then, a few minutes later, she was lost her balance again when she was somersaulting on the floor. The team should have gone with that seven-year-old kid from Cleveland. I heard the Chinese steal babies from their mother’s wombs and begin training them when they’re a week old. They put them in the Olympics by the time they’re six.”

“I have to admit Bob, the Chinese girls did look a little young, but you can’t say that women’s gymnastics is stupid because of boob size.”

“I think I just did. Here’s two other stupid things: sparkly make-up and glittery costumes.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Any sport where competitors where sparkly make-up or a costume that has sequins or glitter on it is not a sport. It is theater, or a circus performance, not a sport. And, unless you are a horse, no prancing in sports. Look at the difference between men and women’s gymnastics. Men don’t wear sparkly make-up or prance and wave their arms around like the girls do. They don’t even have music. If music is involved, it’s not sports; it’s performance art.”

“Ok Bob, whatever. So, what’s your viewing schedule today?”

“The chainsaw fighting finals are at noon—Canadia is heavily favored. At 2:00 I’m going to watch women’s bear wrestling. Now there’s a sport.”

Read more!

Pathetic Bob's English Lessons

Pathetic Bob wandered into my office this morning, flopped down on the tile floor, and said, “You know Mike, I’ve been bitching about the economy lately, but I’ve been doing some research, and I put things in a little perspective.”

“Yeah,” I said, “and just what did you perspect?”

“Well,” he began in a somber tone, “although things are getting pretty tough here, I don’t think it will ever get as bad as in Eeng Land.”

“Really? I like England, and I thought they were doing okay over there.”

“There you go thinking again, and you though wrong. Did you know the average person has to pay about $17 million to buy a house?”

“Wow,” I exclaimed, “that’s about 32 million pounds.”

“Yeah,” said Bob, “those houses weigh a lot over there. Also, did you know their mathematics is based on the Dewey decimal system? I mean it’s no wonder their economy is screwed up; who ever heard of doing math with by a library coding system? And another thing, Eeng-Land’s money is based on sterling silver. You can actually buy goods and services with knives, forks, and spoons.”

I honestly don’t know where he comes up with this stuff. I shook my head in bewilderment and asked, “Bob, where do you come up with this stuff?”

“Internet blogs,” he answered. “You can find out anything on blogs.”

“What else did you find out about England?”

“They have too many people named Oliver, Nigel, and Ian. They have urchins in the cities, not just the sea. They have class, both upper and lower. When they go to the theater, they shake spears at actors. They have a King whose name is Big Ben. They still watch Telly even though he died shortly after Kojak was canceled. There was a beetle infestation in the ‘60s that caused young women to wear very short skirts. I have to tell you Mike, that country has some really weird history”

I shook my head again in amazement. “Bob, I don’t think you’ve really been focusing on what you’ve been reading. You’ve just spouted a bunch of half-truths and distortions about a great country. I’ve been to England, and I loved it; I think you’d love it to if you went.”

“Well, why don’t you take me?”

“I can’t afford it right now. The exchange rate is terrible. The American economy is much worse than the British economy.”

Bob thought for a moment. “What if I change my name to Oliver; can we get a discount?”

Read more!

Rain Dogs

The sky over San Antonio is as gray as Gizmo’s muzzle today, and it is dumping its excess moisture on thirsty lawns. I’ve been at the computer most of the day, when I haven’t been mopping up dog urine. Most members of my pack dislike peeing in the rain. In fact, most of them believe water—unless it is in a bowl—is something to be avoided at all costs.

As the rain picked up velocity and the thunder ricocheted off the roof tops, I noticed Sophie, Gizmo, Zipper, Judy and Beyonce (the Yorkie that is staying with us for the week) laying on my office floor with their heads stuck out the sliding-glass door. It appeared they were in deep contemplation. Pathetic Bob, Lily, and Paco were not so sanguine about the weather; they huddled close together underneath my desk making out their last wills and testaments.

“Why don’t you guys go out and play in the rain?” I asked. Silence was the answer I received.

I then decided to try an experiment. I got up and went to the kitchen, followed by eight canines that truly believe every time I go into the kitchen, food magically falls out of my pants. However, I didn’t stop in the kitchen; I passed through it to the laundry room and opened the door to the garage. After pushing the button on the garage-door opener, the large, metal door began to roll up, revealing a semi-river flowing down the street in front of my house. The downpour was ferocious.

Opening the door connecting the laundry room to the garage wider, I said, “Do you guys want to go outside?”

This time, a stampede of fur and tails flew by me towards the freedom of the neighborhood. The sprint for the outside lasted only a second as the dogs slammed on the brakes just as they passed the edge of the eave on the roof. Their course was reversed, and dashed back to dry ground. “Hey, it’s raining out there,” said Bob.

“Duh,” said I.

I sat on the stoop in the garage for a while as the dogs wandered around smelling my tools and peeing on five-gallon buckets of paint. Then, I noticed Sophie tentatively step out of the garage and on to the lawn. Immediately she was soaked, but the lure of my neighbors’ yards proved to enticing for her to worry about her sogginess and she bolted. Lily followed suit, then Pathetic Bob, and finally Judy trotted out in the rain. Zipper, Gizmo, Paco and the Yorkie watched the others go and shook their heads. They remained within the comfort of the garage.

A few minutes later, Lily returned, followed by Sophie and Judy. Pathetic Bob was nowhere in sight. I got a towel to dry off the three dogs, sure that Bob would return shortly. He didn’t. I called his name several times, but he chose to ignore me. I sure wasn’t going to chase him down in the rain. I let the other dogs back in the house, but I remained in the garage to wait out Bob’s return. A few minutes later, an intense boom of thunder crashed overhead. I looked down the street and spotted a miniature Greyhound hauling ass up the road at hyper-speed. As he skidded to a stop inside the garage, Bob’s eyes were wide and he was quivering like a piano wire. “Holy crap, what was that”” he asked.

“That, Bob, was the result of you leaving the yard. I installed a device in your collar that will raise the ire of Thor, the god of thunder, every time you go more than a hundred feet away from the house.”

I closed the garage door, and as we went back into the house, Bob said, “Take that damn thing out of my collar.”

“No,” I said.

“Well, take my collar off then.”

“I’m going to do that right now; you need a bath.”

“Uh-uh. No way. You know I hate water.

Read more!

The Declaration of Pathetic Bob

This morning, after vacuuming and mopping in preparation for the horde known as “My Wife's Family” descending upon our house and swimming pool, my wife said I could take a break, so I came into my office to make my daily rounds on the Internet. My executive dog, Pathetic Bob, followed me.

“Hey Mike,” he said once the door was closed, “What’s with all this July 4th hoopla? Why do Americans get so worked up and eat hot dogs and hamburgers and blow stuff up on this day?”

“It’s Independence Day Bob,” I answered. “It’s the day we celebrate our independence.”

“Independence from what?

“Independence from the yoke of tyranny that was placed upon us by King George of England. Way back in 1776, Americans got tired of being yoked so Thomas Jefferson wrote a document called the Declaration of Independence, and the American politicians signed it. Basically it said, ‘We’re mad as hell, and we’re not gonna take it anymore.’”

“So, that’s where Paddy Chayefsky got that line,” mused Bob “Is that when Americans started drinking coffee?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” said Bob, “I heard people were upset because the English were making the Americans buy English tea and they were putting a very hefty tax on it. With tea around $5 a spoonful and lemons $12 each, didn’t all the Americans—well, except the real Americans, you know, the Native Americans—go to Boston and dump on the tea?”

“No Bob, I think you’re a little mixed up. I’m not sure what tea cost back then, but it was more than the people wanted to pay, so some people in Boston threw all the tea from English merchant ships into Boston harbor. They dumped in the ocean, they didn’t dump on the tea.”

“Oh, I see. Ok, when did we develop our dependence on coffee, and did we write a document about it?”

“Bob, I think you’re getting a little off track.”

“What about oil,” Bob went on. “How come we don’t celebrate our dependence on oil? And entertainment, what about that?” And, don’t forget fast-food restaurants and computers and toaster ovens and tanning salons and those pills that make men get an erection? It seems to me Mike, you are much more dependent on all kinds of crap now than people were in 1776. And Jesus Mike, what about taxes? If the people were upset about paying taxes a couple hundred years ago, just think how angry they’d be today.”

“Well, you do have a point Bob,” I agreed. “But back then, the people didn’t have hot dogs and hamburgers and really cool fireworks.”

“Hey, now you’re talking. Let’s go eat.”

Read more!