The Idea: the sobering reality of a drunk conversation.: What happened to Bob?

What happened to Bob?

2/23/83 - ?

The venerable Bob Mcgovern was a wise habitué of social gatherings with an aptitude for not giving a fuck, possessing considerable skills in crossing the double yellow lines without getting pulled over. His flagrant foolish infractions were masked by a skillful wit, and So. Co.. Like all free men, he was the naked, the mad, the scholar and the fool. Bless his heart, and his clandestine behavior of late.

You see, Bob was proprietor of a special place on the internet super highway. He owned exclusive rights to a cyber-orgy of young writers and wackos; and used his internet abode to post the recent brain vomit of skillful scribes, thought puke of amateur freelancers, and intellectual spit-up of infantile contributors. All were viewed as equal in the eyes of Bob. Writing was flowing like lava from Vesuvius, with daily aftershocks of nasty prose. People were reading again. Bob was earning E-street credit as word of the friendly atmosphere at his haven for linguistical hobbyists spread. He had it all; he was a hero.

Then one day, Bob disappeared.

The misery and mystery of Bob's sudden departure was enhanced by a voicemail greeting he recorded on the day of his disappearance thanking his friends and family for their support. The paternal verbiage of his writing collection became stagnant, as the quarterback was officially MIA. I want to answer some questions for Bob's reading audience, and perhaps put to rest the daily discomfort those of you experience when you ponder, "What happened to Bob?"

Although many of you believe Bob was not human, he was exactly that, and prone to making mistakes. The mistake he has made here, that he will take to his grave, is not informing the public of his ailment; furthermore, he would have done us all a service by exhibiting a smidgeon of honesty, and explaining the daily struggle of his condition. This condition I speak of is the cause of his absence.

The following is a thuthful introduction to Bob's predicament. Please read carefully, as the details of his departure are a testament to his courage. Let us not dwell on Bob's neglectful failure to nurture his website. Instead, let's celebrate the man that is Bob Mcgovern: a patriot, a hero, a survivor.

On the morning of July 23rd, 2006, Bob awoke with a vicious hangover. His eyes surged from his head, which surged back with the high tide of hurricane season. The young man was a beached blue whale, confused during a feeding frenzy, and withdrawn from the sea of booze. His rescue team consisted of an early morning beer that sufficiently quelled the pangs of withdrawal as brain chemistry adapts to Ethyl-alcohol vacancy. This feeling had become his Sunday morning friend.

What was foreign was a burning itch in the grundular region. For those unfamiliar with the grundle, it is the plateau of unused real estate that spans from the rear seam of the ball sack to the anus. It’s the magic manly no-man's land. It's a useless place, generally speaking, unnoticed by the bulk of the male population. The remaining chunk of male society have only become infinitely aware of it's presence due to a funky odor, a particularly creative female, or a fascination with the application of Gold Bond Triple Medicated powder.

The burning itch indicated the presence of A) a dire need to bathe, or B) a sexually transmitted disease. Bob came from the school of decent hygiene, so choice A was discarded. Choice B, however, remained under serious review. Bob’s antics of late had been a-christian, to say the least, and it seemed that finally his promiscuity had gotten the better of him; implying that by infecting the magic manly no-man’s land one has gotten the better of another. He considered the possible sources of his ailment while browsing his cell phone contacts.

He thought it better to be a “Thumb Guy” and accept responsibility for his actions instead of being a “Finger Guy” and hunting down his evil undoer; if only to prevent further spread of the epidemic. Bob went to the doctor.

Time passes quickly while reading Cosmopolitan’s 101 greatest sex tips. Bob chuckled as he thought of adding his own: get mutherfucking tested. He was sitting on the paper-covered inspection table in his white robe, which allowed plenty of ventilation for the region of flesh now in searing agony.

The doctor arrived, mechanically performed his inspection of the afflicted area, and departed in one fell swoop. Bob sat alone, puzzled, disturbed, then relieved by another chuckle at considering his addition to Cosmo’s list.

The old master of anatomy returned with his verdict. According to an unnamed source, this was approximately the conversation that ensued.

Bob: What’s up Doc?

Doctor scowls, sits, and flips the front page of his notepad.

Doc: Mr. Mcgovern, I’ve both good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?

Bob is still thinking about Cosmopolitan and decides to tell Doc of his idea before the end of his visit

Bob: The good, sir. I’m the type of guy that eats his desert first.

Doc still has not broken a smile.

Doc: Well then, you’ll be happy to know that no further testing for sexually transmitted diseases will be necessary. (Bob: Whew!) We will, however, need to refer you to a specialist.

Bob: Wha?

Doc: A specialist, one who specializes.

Bob: So, you are saying that I’m a special case?

Doc: Every case is special, but what you’ve developed is only studied by a handful of physicians worldwide.

(Uncomfortable silence)

Bob: Please, go on.

Doc: I’m sure you are familiar with the term Hermaphrodite.

(Bob makes his classic big-eyed stare)

Bob: Is this where the bad news begins?

Doc: Perhaps. Bob, what you have, and I’m only speculating, is one of the rarest forms of sexual malfunction. You have a genetic mutation that results in what is known as Late Onset Acute Hermaphroditus.

Bob: What the fuck does that mean?

Doc: Quite simply, it means that you are growing a vagina.

At this point, livid and raving, Bob took his clothes from the office without changing, left the office, and began to seek a second opinion.

The second opinion led to a third, and then a forth. Bob would argue this, that, and the third: you’re an idiot, you’re a liar, I’m completely fucked. The results were conclusive; Bob would have to seek out special treatment for Late Onset Acute Hermaphroditus, or he would grow a vagina.

Aside from the panicked international phone call to the unnamed source, Bob has departed indefinitely on his quest to preserve his manhood.

If you would like to contact Bob, please send email to bobmcgovern@gmail.com. Your support would be greatly appreciated. You may also send email to ben.t.myers@gmail.com, and I will personally deliver your condolences to his family, and perhaps post them online.

Donations to the “Save Bob Mcgovern’s Manhood” fund should be made payable to one Benjamin Myers, and sent to 182 Elm St., Quincy, MA. 02169.

Help us, help Bob.

Thanks.

This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on Sunday, August 13, 2006. You can leave your response.

What happened to Bob?

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“What happened to Bob?”