Bob's Excellent Adventure in Existential Excrement
Bob so thirsty, the floor so pristine, Sergeant Windows so confused. A extremely loud Dutch techno Hoover synth sound appears and 3 ravers with big pupils emerge out of the sewer. Seeing such a clean floor, one of the ravers tells the other two, "This floor is so clean, we could walk on our bums!"; and so, they do. The walls began to melt around Bob, falling into glistening paisley pools around the edge of the room which crept slowly towards his prostrate form. As the pools came closer they merged and began to assume a human form resembling the author Jack Kerouac. Bob feels he should stop drinking and become sober. Bob knows he'll never be able to stop drinking, it's a lifestyle not a choice. But boobs keep reminding him of the want. "I love to party" he says. "Honestly, 72 hour binges are good for your health, I'd say." Binge drinking and pretending to be dead whenever someone came to check on him was one of Bob's favourite pasttimes. That, and, of course, finding stray needles on the street to add to his collection. Bob died. After dying he stood up and exclaimed "It is what it is!". One should be asking how he stood up after dying The paramedics arrived twelve minutes later, deeply unbothered. They then requested Bob to remove his pants. Bob reluctantly agreed and slid them down but not before emptying the waste of his digestive system into his trousers, making sure to sample the brown streaks along his legs with his finger and tongue. He then bent over and said "Kaboom goes the dynamite!" and blasted the wall in a beautiful tapestry of diarrhea. "This wasn't how I wanted to spend my weekend," he said lying in a puddle on the bathroom floor of his hotel room at Anime Midwest. "And yet this is just what I had in mind," replied Copernicus the paramedic with a coy smile. He felt the blood flow violently towards the near center of his body, particularly towards one protruding segment that was now perpendicular to his stomach. Seizing the opportunity of his particular circumstance, he decided to lubricate his external growing appendage with the remains of his muddy work. "Chocolate, mud, shit...what a lucky man I am today, now time for some white frosting" Bob exclaims as he sets his aim for the dank ceiling with his mouth agaped. Bob squinted at the ceiling and muttered, "Damn you, Walter White... that blue meth you sold me behind the Arby’s really did a number on my colon." He unleashes the arc of viscous pale fluid into the air, out and straight back into the same host, "the circle of life, just as JE intended" muses Bob. "JE...I wonder what he's up to on that island of his? Wonder if Sean Combs or Charlie K. is still hanging around him."
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