Oh the Huge Manatee!

Bob TV is the place to sit and watch me entertain you...to tap dance my way into your hearts and blog subscription list.  But what about me?  Is the monkey supposed to bang the cymbals and dance around the room while you idly chit-chat about something else?  Yes, sadly.  But now that The Haven has come into being, my Haven-esque visitors are glancing over into the rest of my pysche.  And once they see this, they'll never drink the coffee again.

So let's chat about a comfortable, sane topic.  Office farts.

Yup, we all know what it is, and most of us have experienced it.  Most of my coworkers are experiencing it tonight, thanks to either a stomach bug or a colon backed up like the Jersey turnpike after a Gaga concert.  But why?  Why can't we control a base bodily function, like burping?  It's a terrible lack of control.  I'm not proud of leaving a vapor trail in the kitchen for the next unlucky sap to walk into (apologies to the secretary, hope therapy goes well). 

Actually, secretly I am proud.  As I should be.  I look forward to watching my boss walk in my office and say, "Hey Bob we need you to wor....omg what the hell is that?"  I blame it on either the last person in the office or my officemate's desk.  But in reality?  It's my chair.  Yes, my soft, supple, cushiony office chair of goodness is also an odorous sponge of nasty.  I can walk into my office after airing out the pants in a neighbor's cubicle, sit down in my chair, and the cushion releases a lovely aroma of baby diapers and hot sick.  Yup, that's disgusting.  And uncannily accurate.

I need to invent an office chair with a charcoal filter.  Instead of ergonomics, it will cater to odorifics, like me and my hiney.  Then, like the pigeon-releaser at an overpriced wedding, I can "let 'er fly" with no worries of ill effects like people passing out or birds crapping on the bride.  I can comfortably smile at ease, instead of looking like a pent-up Puritanical prude most of the time.  Well, not really.  Most of the time I'm smiling, walking around the office, banging cymbals together. 

Curves ahead (Awesome)

I like to drive fast.  Really freaking fast.  But not on the straightaways mind you, I like to drive really fast on curvy mountain roads.  Any hormonal idiot with a small penis complex can crank their car to redline on a straightaway.  All that proves is 1) you like wasting gas and 2) you haven't had an accident yet.  But to drive fast on a curvy road and still keep it in the lane...well, that's something different.

I live in a small country town 20 windy minutes away from the next largest city.  I like my commute to work, mostly because of the windy roads.  There's a curve with a big 30 sign on it, I've hit that at 65 and held it well.  Makes me feel like I'm in NASCAR.  Except I can do right turns.

Now what's funny is that for as fast as I like to go, and as "professional" I think I am as a driver - think NASCAR - I get totally pissed off at people who drive slow down this road.  You brake for THAT curve? Are you freaking kidding me? Oh, and if you turn on your high beams "to see the road better" just pull over and change your diaper you wussie.  Deer?  Of course there's deer.  That's why I drive a Dodge...it's a verb people.

I have found that my big Dodge 2500 with the Cummins, while awesome at towing really big stuff, is not so efficient on those same curves I can take fast in my little Kia.  Might be something about center of gravity.  Or a totally jacked up front end.  But REAL curve drivers should be able to drive a Conestoga wagon that has been out of axle grease since fording that last river where Timmy died from dysentary.  And not only drive it, but keep all four wheels on the ground while the oxen are losing traction.  Hmm, that's a fairly good assessment of my Dodge.  Maybe I need to get those ball joints looked at.

Anyway, where was I?  Oh yeah, doing 80 in a 20 on a hairpin turn with my kids screaming in the back seat about dyssentary.  And I love every minute of it.  Especially when there's ice.  Or a river to ford.

Bob TV (Pilot Episode)

It's a lot easier to tell a story standing in front of the person, wildly waving your arms like an anaphalactic in a bee storm.  It at least makes a boring story more interesting.  So there I was at Rose's house, her sitting quietly on the couch as Rose always does, me telling some story about the critical occurence of the day that had riled me up.  Sweet Rose was quietly amused, whether it be by my musings or my arms creating wind currents, I couldn't tell.

Aaron walked in at that point, I was mid-sentence describing exactly how my crisis unfolded.  After putting down her bag, she sat down on the couch next to Rose and (completely ignoring me) the following conversation unfolded:

Aaron:  Hi Rose, what are you doing?
Rose:  Oh, just watching some Bob TV.  Wanna watch?
Aaron:  I guess.  There's a movie on later but this'll do.

My mouth was agape.  I stared at both of these women who had just trivialized my entire story.  As I stood there Rose sweetly said, "Oh, sorry.  Go ahead Bob.  You were saying?"

I shut my mouth, grabbed my bag, and quietly walked out of the house.  The girls were giggling as I shut the front door, but they were right.  Bob TV was born.