Robert Robus on autumn

The only thing more beautiful than thy golden locks, dear Autumn, is the resplendent mane of my female attendant, Ayvana.
--Robert Robus

I walked out into the lane this morning; it was silent. The seven-'o-clock sunlight dappled the flaming canopy: the maples blushing red, the ashes afire with yellow, the oaks chestnut; and, as I espied a lone squirrel collecting nuts for the impending freeze, the notion found its way into my mind to gather my thoughts together (not unlike a bundle of wood) on this, an autumn day.

My mind was filled with deep and profound thoughts, which, like still water, are at the same time both precious (in all their lucid reflectivity), and easily disturbed. But the scene was still: the sky was clear; the breeze blew but in imperceptible puffs; the wild turkeys that habitually swarm and peck at me were quiescent; and the only sound was the distant cawing of a crow, which rang across the miles like the sugared song of a soprano.

I thought: O Jove, let this resplendent calm be everlasting.

At precisely that moment, five tattooed, leather-jacket-clad bikers roared down the highway, shouting phrases which would make Paris Hilton blush but to contemplate, and packing dames clad in such a manner as to make Christina Aguilera appear prim. Then, a sixteen-wheeler that housed a traveling circus passed by; the elephants trumpeted, the trapeze artists screamed, and a plethora of low firecrackers exploded into the air.

Then, just as I was washing the last of the horse excrement from my loafers, metal band Decibellia Kroncher drove by in their tour bus, turning up their amps to an obscene degree, and soon afterward striking a monstrous chord. The metal bus expanded like a waterlogged peanut; its windows burst; and, according to MSNBS (as well as certain other more demotic sources), the impact registered 9.3 on the Richter scale, and burst 962 piñatas.

And then I, Robert Robus, picked myself up from the location in which I had fallen in the lane, dusted myself off, and shouted:

"Ayvana, bring me thy tresses!"

Ayvana, of course, quickly appeared, and let me run my fingers through them plethorially.

Letter from Benson Mooney

Dear Robert Robus,

How dare you, you insolent cybercomedian, you! I must say that it was a distinct displeasure to have you on my show last week; but I felt certain that, rather than putz around in a shameful manner (as you have done in your latest two blog posts), you were going to make good on your promise to discuss the all-important subject of lemons. But no! Instead, you go around discussing oranges, limes: in sum, any citrus fruit that is not a lemon!

Yet, come to think of it, how could one expect such honourable conduct as I have specified, from such a lowly cybercomedian as yourself? Pfff--impossible! I have been an idiot, Robert--a stupid idiot!

And yet, somehow, my folly continues: Robert L. Robus, I adore you. While I admit that your penchant to tread near the edges of decorum and to pontificate endlessly in a quasi-British manner gave me slight pause at first, I've always really dug your column. You are one of the greatest cybercomedians ever to set a finger to keyboard; you are a tremendous scribe; and I adore your flamboyant style. My wife and I read your column every night before bed, and we find it just so charming and funny! (In fact, last week I had to be treated for a dislocated stomach due to having found one of your posts exceptionally risible.) And, Robert, when I finally decided to bite the bullet and invite you to my nationally-syndicated, critically acclaimed, internationally buzzworthy radio show, I literally tingled with anticipation to meet you, Robert Robus.

The fact that you seem to possess no opinion on lemons, while certainly a big deal, ultimately does not matter. In fact, you (Robert Robus) are sufficiently charming that you may commit any breach of conventionality and/or politeness, and be automatically forgiven. This is somewhat like my wife, in that she, although possessing an obnoxious personality, has such a nice physical form that she could burn my toast, and singe my eggs, and shave my sideburns off, and I would still kiss her with great relish.--Hmm, come to think of it, she appears to have the razor now! Are you miffed, my love, that I have aired my proclivities for your corporeal self in an epistle which is sure to be posted for an international audience by the world's greatest cybercomedian, Robert Robus? Well, I married you! Would that lead you to believe that I was in any way disinclined to smooch your corpus? Now come here and french me, you capricious hussy!

Best wishes,
Benson Mooney

Robert Robus on limes

I'm also fond of limes. Very, very fond of limes.

Robert Robus on oranges

As the better part of my readers must surely be aware, I flew down to Los Angeles this past Thursday for an interview with Benson Mooney, head announcer supreme for KLDA Radio. And although said interview went spectacular at first, it appears to have ended poorly: for Mr. Mooney's security thugs tossed me from the studio soon after I interrupted a Crocodile C piece by shouting over the microphone, "You cannot do this to me, you tyrants: for I am Robert Robus, the world's most fecund comedic genius!"

Despite my wounded dignity, as well as several contusions in regions to which I would consider it a decided breach of decorum even to refer, I am, in essence, fine. And, as such, my attractive female attendant Ayvana is here with me today to aid yours truly in demonstrating just how wonderful oranges can be. Isn't that right, Ayvana?

Ayvana, clad in a low-cut white tank top and scant orange athletic shorts and holding a bucket filled to the brim with large oranges, nods plethorially.

Yes, by my and many other accounts, oranges are the supreme citrus fruit in the history of the world. They have been eaten in trains and on planes; they have been consumed in Spain and in lanes; they have been snarfed in Hereford, Hartford and Hampshire; and, most important, I, Robert Robus (as well as my good friend Tartar) eat them almost constantly. People all over the world and throughout time have been drawn to the orange's unsurpassable sweet flavour and intriguing texture. In fact, I (Robert Robus) would go so far as to say that they are the Crocodile C of all things fructiferous.

Ayvana nods again, moans, "Oh, yes, Robert! You are so right!" Robert runs his fingers through Ayvana's ample tresses.

By the way, dear readers: Before I finish this discourse, allow me to ajoute (or, if you prefer, add) that this post bears no relation at all to what transpired in any previous entries. Instead, it should be construed as an isolated entry within the spacious and hallowed annals of this protracted, enormous blog which bears the prestigious and vaunted stamp of I, Robert Robus, Esq. Again, I wish to stress that this entry bears no relation, in any capacity, to my recent spat with reputed LA radio personality Benson Mooney. No relation at all.

Robert undertakes to french Ayvana. The latter spills bucket of oranges onto the ground, causing aforementioned luscious fruits to spill onto lush grass upon which content of post has transpired. Robus withdraws; screams "The Crocodile C of citrus, ya hear?"; and soon afterward returns to frenching the attendant.

A radio interview with Robert Robus

[The following interview takes place in the studio of Benson Mooney, head announcer for KLDA Radio, Los Angeles.]

Benson Mooney: Hello, dear listeners, and welcome to another day of hard talk and soft hits with me, Benson Mooney. Today we will be hearing from Johnny B. Slick, Jimmy and the Nutcrackers, and, of course, Morza. But perhaps more important, I have in my studio with me today a fine young gentleman and cybercomedian, Robert Robus, who, since late May of this year, has been maintaining a blog replete with amusing opinings and ridiculous narratives (both with and without his friend Tartar). He reports that he is one of the finest cybercomedians in the world, and that legions and legions of fans read his blog every day. How are you doing today, Robert?

Robert Robus: I, Robert Robus, am fine, thank you.

Benson Mooney: That's good to hear. Now I must say, Mr. Robus, that I have been to your blog several times--the URL, by the way, dear listeners, is http://robertrobus.blogspot.com; or you can google him--and I found it quite amusing and preposterous. How, Robert Robus, do you do it?

Robert Robus: I, Robert Robus, do not need to exert much effort: for I, Robert Robus, am naturally brilliant.

Benson Mooney: I don't doubt it, Mr. Robus. Now, many of my listeners out there have called in during the past week (in which, coincidentally, the promotionals were running) dying to know more about you. For example, one "Jaybirt" called in this last Tuesday wondering what your favorite bands are; one "Shirley" called in to inquire what you liked to do in your spare time; and one "Flaffie" got on the line to probe your opinion on lemons.

Robert Robus: Well, Benson, I'm sure Jaybirt will be gratified to hear that I enjoy the strains of Johnny B. Slick, Jimmy and the Nutcrackers, and Morza; Shirley will be interested that I enjoy playing cricket and being trampled by herds of wild beasts; and Flaffie will be flabbergasted to discover that I have no opinion at all on lemons.

Benson Mooney: No opinion at all on lemons? Why, Mr. Robus, I must say that I am surprised. After many of my listeners and I have come to count on you, Robert Robus, for hilarious opinions on everything from strawberry shortcake to ball bearings, how could it come to be that you have no opinion at all on lemons?

Robert Robus: I don't know the answer to that inquiry, Benson. I just don't think about them much, that's all.

Benson Mooney: I must say, Robert Robus, that I, Benson Mooney, am highly disappointed in you. And thus, despite having promised you a long and highly laudatory publicity spot, or "interview," I shall now cut said interview short and put on some Crocodile C.

Robert Robus: No! You can't do this to me, Benson Mooney: for I (Robert Robus) am the world's most vaunted cybercomedian!

Benson Mooney: Yes, I can. However, I will grant you one stipulation: if you post a blog entry, within the next thirty days, putting forth one by one your thoughts on lemons, I, Benson Mooney, will consider making amends. Now, folks, how about some Crocodile C? Here's one that sounds exactly like all other elevator-jazz drivel, but is, experts say, actually a distinct piece. Roll it, boys.

Robert Robus on trees

I, Robert Robus, am extremely fond of trees. I enjoy basking in their shade; I am enamored of scaling their limbs; and I take great gusto in contemplating their majesty. Indeed, whether they be maples, ash, or lindens, I enjoy spending obscene amounts of time in their company.

As it happens, I, Robert Robus, now stand beneath a venerable oak. It is early autumn--and, as such, the molten glories of splendid autumn have not yet brushed the trees aflame in ardent strokes. Yet it is coming; and as I, Robert Robus, once again endeavor to converse with this venerable dendrite, I wish to pose the question, "When shall you allow the molten glories of splendid autumn to brush your foliage aflame in ardent strokes?" Yet, given my spotty track record in eliciting responses from this venerable dendrite, I think my chances of eliciting yet another would be dubious at best.

But hark! There is a rustling from the crown branches of this venerable tree! Why, the dendrite must be readying itself for a reply; for why else would its branches stir? And--OW! I just got hit by an acorn, folks--I just got hit by an acorn! Why, it seems this infernal tree has pelted me with one of its execrable stones, dear readers; can you believe such brusque audacity? One thing's for sure: it could not have been that squirrel I espy scurrying through the green up yonder meanwhile chuckling; no, that would be impossible and absurd! This tree developed a personal vendetta against me, pelted me with an acorn, and quite fleetly and subsequently planted a hologram of a chuckling squirrel high in its lofty branches. Case closed, my dear readers--that must be it!

[NOTE FROM BLOG ADMINISTRATOR]
Though sarcasm is a salutary and often addictive practice, I believe in moderation in all things.

Robert Robus on grapes

Though a true connoisseur of fine fruits and natural goodness, I, Robert Robus, am perhaps especially fond of grapes: for they are one of the world's finest fruits. Indeed, aside from being luscious beyond account, I envisage grapes as constituting purple orbs of pure, unadulterated goodness. And Tartar, though most often appearing to differ in opinion with I, Robert Robus, on almost any conceivable subject, most assuredly agrees with me here.

Grapes, of course, can be eaten slowly, lusciously; that is why they are viewed by some to be the ideal date fruit. (And as a matter of fact, I, Robert Robus, always bring along several bushels of these orbs whenever I undertake to woo a dame.) They can also be eaten quickly; they can be eaten on a plane, in a train, and in any other transport modality; and they can be eaten with green eggs, with ham, and/or with irksomely persistent individuals named Sam. But perhaps most important, grapes may be trod on and transformed into one of the most fabulous beverages in the history of civilization: Wine!

At this juncture I must admit that I, Robert Robus, imbibe wine almost constantly. In fact, I have with me today a bottle of California shiraz, to illustrate to Robusionados just how superlative grapes truly are. My attractive female attendant, Ayvana (whom I met at a party last Friday) has just popped the cork for me; now she has just smilingly poured me a glass; now she has handed the goblet to me as if to say, "Robert Robus, you are suave and handsome beyond compare." I agree with that sentiment; and, as such, I will reward your excellent judgment by pouring you a glass in return. Yes, darling: let us get inebriated, and then proceed to a certain species of chamber in which sleeping and certain other acts are often performed, where we shall engage in such deeds as reading Tolstoy, propounding theories of aesthetics, and playing sudoku.

[NOTE FROM BLOG ADMINISTRATOR]
Robert Robus has just emitted a loud 'whoop,' downed his glass of wine in one gulp, and undertaken to french Ayvana, thus signaling the end of today's column. Please return another day for more from the desk of your favorite cybercomedian, Robert Robus.

A dialogue on sneezing

Robert Robus: It's been said that sneezing is a pleasurable activity; and, verily, I believe that to be the case.

Bates: Eep eep.

Robert Robus: Why, Bates! It is extraordinarily superlative to hear you voicing your opinions in so articulate a fashion. And, while I understand that you are anxious to ascertain the precise philosophical underpinnings of my statement, I assure you that I am highly justified in making the claim.

Bates: Eep eep.

Robert Robus: Oh, most certainly, Bates. Much better than chocolate.

Bates: Eep eep.

Robert Robus: Indeed, indeed. And, with relation to that matter: what, may I inquire, is your opinion on colds?

Bates: Eep eep.

Robert Robus: Ah! So you opine that having a cold is also a highly pleasurable activity, quite apart from any sneezing it might cause? Brilliant!

Bates: Eep eep eep.

Robert Robus: You're welcome...and, yes, I have heard the rumors. But Bates, I must say that, given the choice betweeen being sandwiched by attractive, minimalistically clad young dames and spending an hour in a room full of freshly-ground pepper, I would quickly select the dames.

Bates: Eep eep?

Robert Robus: Yes, even if the pepper were astonishingly fresh and of quintessentially premium quality: for I, Robert Robus, am exceedingly fond of dames.

[Bates makes an inappropriate gesture and proceeds to embark on a protracted session of an activity which, though much in favor among monkeys of the brasher sex, would constitute a decided breach of decorum to mention.]