One day, Bob woke up and the audience went wild with the sounds of multiple one hands clapping.
"Today is a good day to die," said Bob, checking his chartreuse dream catcher for any stragglers. As usual, it was empty, and Bob wondered where all his dreams had gone. But Bob couldn't concentrate for very long and his thoughts moved on to weightier matters, such as death and taxes.
Bob chose death.
But then Bob remembered he had to go to work, so he scrounged himself up out of bed.
Somewhere in the dark annals of Washington, D.C., the chief head of the Internal Revenue Service quietly chuckled to himorherself once again.
Bob felt not a lot wary, so he rubbed the Buddha's tummy, and thusly he attained a state of nirvana.
But Bob lost his nirvousness when he remembered he was behind on his membership dues to the temple, so he bowed to Krishna instead. Thus Krishna gave Bob an epiphany.
"I must find my dreams," boldly stated Bob.
Bob rushed into the kitchen and quickly drank his echinacea tea, a.m. detox tea, constipation tea, and estrogen tea and ate his doughnut, his daily doughnut, leaving just enough time to hop on his mo-ped, Skippy, before the story shifted scenes.
Bob wasn't quite sure where to start looking for his lost dreams. While he plumbed these depths and the twin question of where broken hearts go, Skippy just took Bob to work like it usually did.
"Hmm," gutturaled Bob, "is this where I lost my dreams? I guess it's as good a random start as any."
Bob de-saddled, and the building swallowed him like so many other plankton that went to work each day.
The receptionist greeted Bob with a smile full of the warmth and friendliness which is seldom found outside of a large video chain store.
"Hello, Bob!" she exclaimed through her teeth. "I'm so happy it's Monday! Only five more days until Friday! I can't wait!" she grinned out.
"Yes," forthesaked Bob.
As usual, the receptionist was wearing a frog costume.
"Did you see my new frog doll?" she gleefully asked Bob, pointing to a collection of at least 314.
Bob couldn't quite tell which one was new. "It's very nice," he nonethelessed.
"I like frogs," gleamed the receptio-
"Wait a minute, what's this, Al? The author seems to have called a time out."
"Yes, Frank, it appears so."
"This is odd. The author is walking out to the mound."
"You have a point there."
"Yes, Al, the author seems to be calling for a relief Bob. Bob is leaving the mound, and Bob is coming in from the bullpen."
"That seems to be what is happening."
"I guess Bob just didn't have the stuff today. He did look a little tight out there. What do you say, Al?"
"I agree, wholeheartedly, Frank."
"Well, some days you have it, some days you don't. Let's see how Bob handles these hitters after the roughing-up Bob got."
"Yes, let's. But first, a short pause for station identification."
(Your name here)
One day, Bob woke up and...and...and? Bob couldn't quite think of the word for what he was doing, so he decided that, logically, he should be doing something else. But he couldn't quite think of what to do. Bob was feeling very nebulous.
"Oh, Al! Bob didn't last too long out there."
"Yes, here comes the author again."
"It's really too bad. Bob is usually so dependable, but he's just getting murdered out there today."
"I see what you're saying there, Frank."
"Thank you, Al."
"What's this, we've just received a note from downstairs. It looks like we've been termina-
One day, Bob woke up in an inky void, which was quite upsetting because he had just done laundry.
Bob tried to move in the void, but he was impeded by cubicle walls. Not that he really felt too bad about it. The void was actually quite comforting in a dead, emotionless way. Bob could just kind of hang out - disengaged and floating. Why fight capitalism, or post-modernism, or religious schisms, or any kind of isms for that matter.
"I ism the void, and I ism a happy state," droned Bob.
Suddenly, Bob felt something gnawing at the base of his brain.
"Aliens!" loudly droned Bob. He had known, before the void, that this day would come. He could vaguely remember learning about the brain-eating aliens from television and newspapers.
For the first time in several time units, Bob could feel the seductive twinge of his cruel mistress, curiosity.
"I, I, I, I," Bob stuttered. "I..." (wondered), "I wonder what kind of alien it is," Bob wondered.
So, as he was wont to do, Bob took out his brain to look at the alien.
"I hope it doesn't bite me," Bob hopped, er, hoped.
Bob looked at his brain, and off the stem was hanging a small fuzzy alien.
"No," contradicted Bob, "it's a squerrel; no, a squirel; no, a squarel."
It was a chipmunk.
"Thank you. So, Mr. Chipmunk, what kind of symbol are you?"
"I am a symbol of your memory, storing nuts for the winter years of your life," chirped the cheerful chipmunk.
"Oh, that's just silly," said Bob, preparing to punt the pretentious new pal.
"No, no, wait. I'm a symbol of your hibernating mind which is ready to awaken to a new spring of intellectual exuberance," replied the resourceful rodent.
"Fine. I'm symbolic of empty symbols in insincere writing."
And for lack of a better exit strategy, the chipmunk disappeared in a flash of smoke and mirrors. Suddenly, Bob felt something.
It was very emotional.
So Bob called his spade, "Here, spade," and began to dig out of the void. But beyond the inky void was a white-with-blue-lines void.
What else was there to do?
Unluckily, he found himself plunging to his death.
But suddenly, out of nowhere, came Zeus and Lando Calrissian in the Millennium Falcon. They plucked Bob from the sky and saved his life.
But suddenly, Bob woke up and found it was all just a dream and he was still plunging to his death at the bottom of the page.
Bob went back to sleep.