Bob’s Visit to Holly Hill, Florida, in an Attempt to Infect Himself with Surface and Visceral Lymphocystis Disease
Well, Bob would like to say that Libby is a wonderful companion, as quadrupeds go, but now I am faced with heartbreak and worry.
You see, Bob has been trying to kill himself. Yep, it’s true. I found his note:
His latest adventure, his odyssey through the most vile, rank, and disease-infested cesspool of violence, alcoholism, greed, and crappie fishing the planet has ever known – Holly Hill, Florida – is a dead give-away. When he came home, he told me he was there trying to catch Surface and Visceral Lymphocystis.
“Why?” I asked him. “Why?”
“It was the only disease I could think of,” was all he said.
And even then, he failed in his attempt. No one in the redlight district or at the hitman academy had ever heard of surface and visceral lymphocystis disease. My poor fish. Failure after failure. No wonder he was so despondent. No wonder he walked so mindlessly across the street to buy his first ever case of Old Milwaukee. Lawdy, the way people drive these days.
Filleted on the grill of a transit bus.
Well, certainly that’s not exactly the moment he would have intended to off himself, unless he really wanted to save himself the $14.95 on the beer, but I wish the transit authority workers had the foresight to notice him breathing before scraping him off and sending him through Orlando’s underground sewage system to find his glorious 10-gallon tank in the sky. Have they no compassion?
If not for his cell phone, Bob surely would still be floating hopelessly somewhere underground, left for dead. But now I know he’s alive; he has hope. And I hope he has changed his mind about dying. A suicidal, anorexic crappie is the last thing I need to deal with in my stressful life right now.
Until he turns up, my heart is heavy. Bob is a true friend. Please pray for us, my brethren.
Well, Bob would like to say that Libby is a wonderful companion, as quadrupeds go, but now I am faced with heartbreak and worry.
You see, Bob has been trying to kill himself. Yep, it’s true. I found his note:
It’s all beginning to make sense now, his refusal to eat (though he obliges himself to the generosity of his CF friends), his risky adventures anywhere but here and with anyone but me, the knives in his kitchen. Apparently, he has become a suicide hobbyist. I wish I had seen the signs earlier, and spared him some of his discomfort.
His latest adventure, his odyssey through the most vile, rank, and disease-infested cesspool of violence, alcoholism, greed, and crappie fishing the planet has ever known – Holly Hill, Florida – is a dead give-away. When he came home, he told me he was there trying to catch Surface and Visceral Lymphocystis.
“Why?” I asked him. “Why?”
“It was the only disease I could think of,” was all he said.
And even then, he failed in his attempt. No one in the redlight district or at the hitman academy had ever heard of surface and visceral lymphocystis disease. My poor fish. Failure after failure. No wonder he was so despondent. No wonder he walked so mindlessly across the street to buy his first ever case of Old Milwaukee. Lawdy, the way people drive these days.
Filleted on the grill of a transit bus.
Well, certainly that’s not exactly the moment he would have intended to off himself, unless he really wanted to save himself the $14.95 on the beer, but I wish the transit authority workers had the foresight to notice him breathing before scraping him off and sending him through Orlando’s underground sewage system to find his glorious 10-gallon tank in the sky. Have they no compassion?
If not for his cell phone, Bob surely would still be floating hopelessly somewhere underground, left for dead. But now I know he’s alive; he has hope. And I hope he has changed his mind about dying. A suicidal, anorexic crappie is the last thing I need to deal with in my stressful life right now.
Until he turns up, my heart is heavy. Bob is a true friend. Please pray for us, my brethren.
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