I would put something creative and novel into the new story box, but, i am very low on inspiration. So, um, there was a man named Bob. No, scratch that. His, no, her name is Robert, but we all called her Bob. Big Bob, because she was, well, big. She intimidated men & frightened women. Subsequently, she dressed like a man so that others would accept her gas. Big Bob had terrible gas from eating rhubarb and pepper jerky. But Big Bob was a woman and would get surly every month. That's when she drank whiskey. I closed my family album and sighed. I missed my mom, Big Bob. I miss the times she would take me under her arm (in a sleeper hold) and show me her barbwire collection. Those certainly were the days, I thought. Big Momma Bob gave me such a bear hug one time, my whole face done turn'd a perdy shade of puce. Her brother-cousin Bubba liked to Perambulate Leicester Square and watch everything, then come home to paint all night. Daily he did this and became a famous painter. His life dream was accomplished, despite being only a torso and a head in a basket with wheels. They weren't even connected. The head did all the thinking and the torso everything else. How it managed to paint with such detail, with such feeling, was of no surprise to art critic Rick Rogers. "The torso paints directly with its heart," he explained, "the head has to use its lips, which though sensitive can not see with most of the upper head missing." "So basically what you have here is an artist that is ONLY A TORSO!" I screamed at art critic Rick Rogers as I slashed the canvas into hundreds of microscopic pieces. I only realized what I'd done when it was too late to undo it. After I calmed down I realized I could probably turn this into modern day art!



1 Gibber's photo

Oh, so the head wasn’t even connected. Nevermind.

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