Robert Robus in Pamplona

As you may have inferred from the gusto with which I embark upon my habitual escapades, I, Robert Robus, am exceedingly fond of being I, Robert Robus. While I may get tossed around a bit, both by circumstance and by large beasts, I assure my readers that I, Robert Robus, do not mind one whit. In fact, if I had the choice of whether to lounge all afternoon in an armchair or get chased by a large-horned bull for several hours until it finally reared up and pricked me in the--

What? What's that you say? That any rational being would quickly select the armchair over the bronco? Why, what are you implying about I, Robert Robus? Now, I assure you that I, Robert Robus, am an exceedingly rational individual: for I, Robert Robus, read a prodigious quantity of books. And, while it is true that, from the period of 1973-78, my reading material consisted almost entirely of fictional and non-fictional accounts of bullfight bloopers--and, come to think of it, that I attended bullfights almost constantly while working as a statue in Madrid in the '80s--I assure you that I, Robert Robus, do not have an irrational fixation on bullfighting.

To prove such, I have here one "Toro," whom, I understand, has been entrusted by nature with an exceptionally muricate (or, if you prefer, sharp) set of horns. In fact, said horns can puncture diamonds with a single thrust, pierce through steel without even deigning to contact it, and--the which is even more impressive--penetrate that oatmeal I spilled on a chest of drawers in Pamplona last Friday and have not cleansed since.

At any rate, although Toro is currently sleeping, he will not be doing so for long: for I, Robert Robus, shall presently prick him with the thick, obscenely long needle I now hold in my hand, and--(Pricks bull.) Ha! Take that, you passions-driven beast! That'll teach you to stick vaunted individuals such as I, Robert Robus, on their twenty-ninth birthdays, at the very moment in which they are readying themselves to devour obscenely large butter-cakes, and--OW! Hey! The referee has not blown the whistle to indicate that it is copacetic for you to gore me; consequently, the activities in which you are currently and so enthusiastically mired are not copacetic! OW! OW! OW!

[NOTE FROM BLOG ADMINISTRATOR]
I'll go get the ointment.