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!

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!

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!

Pathetic Bob's Christmas Story

I’ve been trying to get festive. According to the song it’s supposed to be “The most wonderful time of the year,” so Pathetic Bob and I decided to go out in the real world today and see what was so damn wonderful. I put Bob’s guide-dog outfit on him and grabbed my white cane and dark glasses and we hopped in the car to began our Christmas cruise.
Our first stop was North Star Mall, the largest mall in town. As we were doing the blind-man-and-dog stroll (an unfortunate ruse we must perpetrate or else Bob would not be allowed inside), we came across a gaggle of little children standing in line to have their pictures taken with Santa and tell him all the useless crap they want for Christmas.
“Hey Em,” said Bob excitedly, “Who are those little people?”
“They’re kids, Bob.”
“Very funny mistletoe breath, I know they are kids. Who are those other little people?”
“Well Bob, they are dwarves, also known as little people. They are dressed up to look like elves, mythical little toymakers who serve their bearded master.”
“Can we go meet one? Can we? Can we?” Bob whined.
“I don’t think so Bob. They’re busy working. Maybe after Christmas, when they’ve been laid off.”
“You mean once Christmas is over, all the dwarves will be unemployed?”
“No, I was just kidding,” I said
“”Well,” shot back Bob, “you shouldn’t kid about stuff like that.” He circled the Santa exhibit, and then came back and sat next to me on one of the benches. “You know Em, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I think you could be right. It seems the only time you see dwarves is at Christmas time and in fantasy movies. It just doesn’t seem right. I mean they are just short people right?”
“That’s true Bob.”
“Well, Tom Cruise is short, and he’s a flaming nut case, too, but he’s in movies year round. I’m getting a little pissed Em. I don’t like dwarves being exploited this way. I gotta do something.”
“But Bo….” Before I could finish my sentence, Bob ran off and darted through the mass of children and jumped and Santa Claus’ lap. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but suddenly Bob yanked the fat guy’s beard off and began growling at him real loud. Next thing I knew a posse of mall security droids swarmed the Santa exhibit. I dashed over and busted through the wall of mall caps to defend Bob. I picked him up and made a beeline for the exit; we almost made it. Unfortunately, I tripped over a very old woman in a wheelchair, and the security guys grabbed us.

Pathetic Bob and I were taken deep into the bowels of the mall and held for questioning in brightly lit, small room that had a one-way mirror. “Dammit Bob, look what you’ve done. Now we’ll probably end up in jail and the pound.”
“Just calm down Em,” Bob said. “Invoke your right to silence. I’ll do the talking.”
Just then, the door slammed open, and in walked a uniformed mall Nazi with wire-rimmed glasses and a gut bigger than Santa’s. “Well, well, well,” he said sarcastically, “so you like to impersonate a blind person and have your dog attack people. Well mister, that don’t fly around here.”
“But officer,” I began, and never finished because Bob butted in.
“Hush Em. Look Barney Fife, we know our rights. We want a lawyer.” Bob just loves cop shows.
The security guy stopped in his tracks, shaken. He looked at me and said, “That dog can talk.”
“Of course I can talk scrotum gut, now let me talk to your boss,” demanded Bob.
The guard retreated from the room, and a few minutes later the door opened, and in walked…a dwarf. He was dressed in an Armani suit and carried a two-way radio. Pathetic Bob turned to me and grinned from ear to ear.
Bob explained to the dwarf, who happened to be the security chief, the whole incident was a misunderstanding and he was just trying to stand up for human dignity. Mr. Belamario, the chief, just nodded, looking at me from time to time. When Bob finished his oration, he wasn’t sure the chief was buying what he had to say so he turned and pointed at me and said, “It’s all his fault.”
Luckily, Mr. Balermario had a sense of humor, and he let Bob and me off. Before he had us escorted from the mall (with instructions we were never to return), he pulled Bob aside and had a few words with him.
Once we were safely back in the car, I asked Bob what Mr. B had said.
“He told me that if I ever got tired of living with you, he and his wife would gladly take me in.” He then added, “It is a wonderful time of the year, isn’t it Em?”

Read more!

The Surprising Un-Surprise Birthday Party

A bellicose parrot thundered in my right ear, “Try the damn fajitas.” Startled, I reflexively stepped to the left, which caused me to make full-body contact with a waitress named Sula, who was carrying a tray laden with bowls of hot, steaming chicken caldo. Sula went down hard, and the soup she was transporting took a northwest trajectory, landing on a party of four sheriff’s deputies, causing first-degree burns on one of the deputy’s fireplug biceps. This was not the sort of entrance I wished to make at my birthday dinner at Cantina Felipe.
I was unscathed, but I could feel accusatory eye darts fired in my direction. “It wasn’t me,” I explained desperately, “The bird yelled at me, and I got scared.” My excuse did not seem to be playing well; I doubt it was even heard over the howling of the napalmed deputy. I helped Sula off the floor as Manuel, the assistant manager, called EMS to transport the lawman to a local hospital. I was looking around for my party when one of the uninjured deputies approached me with malice and asked for my identification. “You’re in a heap of trouble boy,” he snarled.
I was both terrified and flattered. I felt I was about to be sucked into the nightmare of our legal system, but today I was 61, and he had called me “boy.” As I slowly reached for my wallet and ID, a young girl, about six-years-old, came up and said to the cop, “I saw it. I saw what happened, and it was the bird’s fault. That’s a mean bird, he scares me.”
The deputy smiled at the little girl, frowned at me, and then stared at the parrot. The bird just bobbed its head. By this time, the clamor had begun to die down in the restaurant, and relative calm was being re-established. It appeared the lawman might dismiss the incident and send me on my way when Pathetic Bob walked out from one of the small banquet rooms. “Jeez Em, where the hell have you been? Everybody’s waiting on you. They won’t let me have any food ‘til you get here,” he complained. “Who is this cop?”
I hadn’t realized my wife had invited the dog to my surprise party that was not really a surprise party but had become a surprise party after all. “Never mind Bob,” I quickly responded, hoping to get him out of the deputy’s presence, “Why don’t you just go back into the room, and I’ll be along shortly.”
“Is that your dog?” asked the cop.
“Well, he lives with me, but he’s his own dog,” I tried to explain.
As I launched into a further explanation about it being my birthday and the unsurprised-surprise party, the little girl went over to Bob and starting petting him. “Have you washed your hands?” he asked her. She giggled.
I was talking to the deputy, the girl was talking to Bob, Bob was talking to the girl, and the parrot was bobbing and weaving like a professional boxer. As the officer finally handed my ID back to me, Bob came up and said to him, “I think you ought to arrest that bird. The kid told me what the bird did. It’s a menace, take it away.”
“Bob, I don’t think…”
“To hell with that Em. I’m fed up with birds getting away with everything. They need to be held accountable. Every time I go out on the deck at home, birds gangs fly by and drop poop bombs on me. I’m sick of it. This city locks up dogs and cats just for wandering around not hurting anyone, but birds, they get away with any damn thing they want to do.”
The deputy looked Bob, then back at me. “Are you a ventriloquist?” he asked.
I laughed nervously. “Uh, yeah. I was just fooling around, you know, I was entertaining the little girl. Look sir, I really appreciate your understanding. I’m gonna take Bob, and we’re going to go have a nice birthday dinner. I hope your friend will be Ok.”
I picked Bob up and headed towards the banquet room, but before we had gone two steps, he turned around and yelled at the parrot, “We’re gonna have chicken!”

Read more!

Electricity and Hats

After I had finished The New York Times crossword puzzle and started on the Sudoku puzzle this morning, my dog, Pathetic Bob, finally crawled out from under the bed covers and came into the breakfast room. I greeted him cheerfully only to receive a, "Yeah, sure, whatever," from the normally upbeat Bob.
"Somebody got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning," I said.
"Yeah, well fuck you!" Bob retorted.
Now I could have responded with, "Fuck you, too," and we could have spent the morning hurling obscenities at each other, but being the sensitive and somewhat caring lemur that I am, I merely said, "Obviously there is something bothering you Bob. Do you want to share your feelings with me?"
"What are you, a woman?" Bob cracked.
I knew enough to let cranky dogs bitch, so I returned to my puzzle and kept a watch on Bob as he wandered around mumbling and grumbling. After a while, he came back to the table and said, "Look, I'm sorry Em. I had a bad night, and I have a lot on my mind. I might have PMS."
"Trust me Bob, you don't have PMS. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind. Maybe I can help."
"Well maybe I have weltsmertz then. Anyway, there's a whole lotta stuff bothering me that nobody seems to be worried about. That worries me 'cause I think some really bad shit could happen while nobody's paying attention."
"Tell me about some of the shit and then you won't have to worry alone."
"First, people aren't paying enough attention to electricity. If we are not careful, electricity wars will soon break out all across the globe."
"I'm not sure I follow you Bob."
"Wow, how surprising. OK, here's the deal. Global warming is really screwing up the planet. There's way too much carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, oil prices are high, coal-powered electricity plants are helping to pollute the air, there are too many goddamn computers and video-game consoles being used, and George Foreman is making too many useless kitchen appliances. It seems like the only companies that aren't trying to encourage electrical use are automotive manufacturers. Critical mass will soon be reached; ac will rise up against dc. Remember the Watts riots of the '60s? Wait until you see the Volts riots that are coming. "
"That's a pretty damn bleak assessment Bob. What do you think we should do?"
"Well, if you were smart Em, you would take your money out of your IRA, and invest it in battery companies."
"What else is on your mind Bob?"
"Lots of stuff Em. For instance, the coming hat shortage. Do you know how far down fedora production has fallen in the U.S. alone? Seventy-eight percent, that's how much. And, nobody's doing anything. Another thing is the mental-health crisis. Pharmaceutical companies are cranking out new brain pills faster than rabbits fuck. People are getting to mentally healthy. If the trend continues, we will end up being way short of lunatics, and without lunatics the creative arts will suffer. I could go on, but I'm hungry."
"Well, here's the rest of my toast. After you finish that, why don't you read the comics in the newspaper, that usually cheers you up?”
"Fuck you Em, I'm going back to bed.”

Read more!