Yeah...You in the vibrating trench coat holding the blow up doll of Emeril Lagasse.
By the way...
What the fuck?!
I have a confession to make.
You see, you may have read before that I have to go to physical therapy for my hand.
And that my therapist slightly resembles an elderly man's foot.
However, if it wasn't for her...
..I wouldn't have met Bob.
I. Love. Bob.
My therapist introduced me to Bob, and we haven't parted since.
I love Bob because:
1) I can hold and squeeze him whenever I feel like it
2) Bob will go with me anywhere.
This includes meetings at work and, sometimes, when I poo.
3) He fits so well in my hand, that it seems we were made for each other.
4) Bob is soft, yet I can be rough with him when I need to.
And he never judges me.
Probably because he can't speak.
5) No matter where I go, Bob is always in my pants.
Ladies and Gentlemen...
I present to you...
Bob is my sponge.
Yeah - I've got a million of 'em.
Unfortunately, most of them suck just like that one.
My therapist gave me this sponge so I can try to get feeling and movement back in my hand.
So, most of my time is spent squishing and smooshing ol' Bob here.
And I DO mean MOST of my time.
That picture there?
He's sitting on top of the toilet roll dispenser here in the men's room at work as I sit inches away with my pants around my ankles disposing of last night's Pad Thai in a most noisy fashion.
That's dedication for you.
Good boy, Bob. Good boy.
Now...back in the pants!
So, at about 8:30 this morning...I left my desk to head into our lab.
This is rare for me, as I usually try to avoid doing work while I'm here.
When I returned to my desk....
...I was greeted by this:
"I can't believe you left me! - Bob"
Don't I feel like an asshole, now.
Won't happen again, buddy.
By the way...
...you write like a girl.
Now you're DEFINITELY going back in the pants.