Robert Robus's fan mail

e-mail 1
sender: Shirley
recipient: Robert Robus

Oh, Robert! You are so adorable and attractive; in fact, I worship the ground you pontificate on! I wish you would post updates to The Musings of Robert Robus every hour--nay, every minute! Furthermore, I believe you to be the finest cybercomedian in the history of the world. (Actually, that is not my opinion--it's objective fact!) Please keep writing, Robert. . .keep writing, or women like me shall be plunged into the throes of, um, worshiping rock stars whose consciousness the definition of "abstemious" conspicuously escapes. I adore you, Robert!

Love,
Shirley

e-mail 2
sender: Danny
recipient: Robert Robus

Dear Robert Robus,

I've been reading your column since I first came upon it a month ago, and let me tell you: it's changed my life! I am five years old; and while such limited experience has not necessarily afforded me a sapient view of worldly phenomena, I assure you that I say with utmost confidence that your weblog instantiates the highest ideals of excellence I hold dear. Please keep writing! If you don't, I'll probably become disillusioned, and end up a derelict twenty-something who smokes clove cigarettes and writes poetry on garbage can lids. But, no pressure.

Sincerely,
Danny
kid

e-mail 3
sender: Tartar
recipient: Robert Robus

Hey Robert,

Who do you think you're fooling with that bologna? As if you could have adoring fans--pffff! There is little I could say that would be more ridiculous than that! In fact, you suck.

Worst wishes,
Tartar

P. S. Ha ha!

e-mail 4
response to previous message
sender: Robert Robus

I must confess that I have no idea what Tartar is talking about. While at first glance it might appear that I, Robert Robus, crafted adoring e-mails 1 and 2 in order to make it appear as if I were widely read and extolled, I assure you that that is not the case. In fact, I assure you that I, Robert Robus, really am that popular.

Case closed. Please return another day for more first-tier musings from the desk of your favorite cybercomedian, Robert Robus.

Robert Robus goes to the supermarket

I, one will note, am Robert Robus. I send a heartfelt and appreciative greeting to the millions of fans who track my escapades on a quasi-quotidian basis. Well, then: here I am, about to enter Bumbo's, the local supermarket of I, Robert Robus--to which I am not above directing my steps on at least five occasions per annum. (On other occasions I stave off my appetite with chunks of plaster, which have been protuberant in my abode since I began hacking at the south wall of my kitchen not five years ago.) And lo: as I stride through the glorious panes of glass which miraculously part as I tread near, I see a sea of strange wheeled contraptions of steel, whose purpose, furthermore, I can scarcely summon to cognizance.

Yet that is of precisely no importance. I shall proceed. Now, I am traversing yet another pair of those wondrous moving panes of glass. And, by Jove! The sight that awaits me is simply magnificent! Everywhere, and all around me, lies food! Upon my word, dear readers: this is scarcely what one might expect upon entering one of those emporia that commonly enter our vernacular discourse under the designation "supermarket"--this is scarcely what one might expect! In fact, I anticipated to encounter here nothing more--nor nothing less--than shoe polish, twill caps, and kerosene for one's lamps. But what are these? "Frosted Flakes?" How absolutely useless, incorrigible, and absurd!

I must say, far from being propitiated, allayed, and assuaged by these proceedings, I have, to the contrary, been completely and utterly incensed. This infernal "supermarket" is clearly a sinister plot of the modern world (of which I remain, by the way, completely oblivious) to flummox, bamboozle, and otherwise discombobulate lofty personages such as I, Robert Robus. I shall not stand for this, you hear me? I shall not take it! In fact, so as to show these tyrants who's boss, I shall now go to the counters toward the front of this emporium, and transmit my august opinions over that strange communication modality which, as I seem now to recall, is commonly referred to as the "intercom."

[OVER SAID COMMUNICATION MODALITY]
Attention all personages who currently find themselves within the confines of Bumbo's: this "fine supermarket" in which you are currently "shopping for food," is not, in fact, a food emporium! Rather, it is a sinister implement of power and control manipulated by unscrupulous and utterly insidious hands! When you think you are merely browsing for celery, Harry, you are being implanted with strange devices and surveilled by Martians in cahoots with management! When you think you are merely selecting juices, Sally, you are unwittingly transmitting classified information to the planet Zolok! And so, in the midst of these dire and sordid circumstances, I hereby implore all customers: get out before it's too late! Get out before it's too late! This emporium is not actually a supermarket, and--Hey! What are these strange gentlemen doing here? And furthermore, what are those strange chunks of metal which are pinned to those mysterious blue uniforms they appear to be wearing? And--hey, you brutes! Let go of my shirt! Let go of my shirt! It is I, Robert Robus, the world's most vaunted cybercomedian; how dare you ruffle my lapels? You haven't heard the end of this, you tyrants--you haven't heard the end!

Dear readers, seeing as I, Robert Robus, am now being brutalized by these savage tyrants (who are, as I speak, endeavoring to wrest this communications device from my clutches), I must hereby sign off. If Tartar is able to afford the bail, I shall return quite promptly to thrill you with more musings (and many further ridiculous narratives) from the desk of I, Robert Robus! Until then, farewell!

Robert Robus on pie

My sentiments on pie are precisely the same as the next man's. Of course, in this case, the "next man" is my new friend, Tartar. Tartar has quite a predilection for these species of fruit-filled pastry; in fact, he eats them almost constantly. And although I, Robert Robus, like pie precisely as much as my friend Tartar, I am not able nearly as often to indulge these sentiments, due to a congenital fear of clogging an artery, and to doctor's strict orders. My doctor, in fact, has installed cameras throughout my abode (as well as an electrode on my chest) in order that, in case he catch me eating a pie, he may administer a severe electrical shock.

And, my! Look, Tartar: there on the counter now sits a delectable-appearing apple pie, courtesy of the oven and of my favorite pastry-chef, Mrs. Smith! And, oh, what torture: to be able to lay eyes upon a delectable-appearing (and furthermore, delectable-smelling) pastry, and not to be sanctioned to devour! This is worse than the most excruciating mode of torment ever conceivable in the mind of the confounded Satan himself! Of course, the only thing worse than espying a pastry which one is not sanctioned to polish off is to watch someone else eat said pastry. Luckily, dear readers, that does not seem to be in the cards, and. . .

What? What's that, Tartar? You wish to consume said pastry? But, Tartar, I am your most vaunted companion; and you are aware--are you not?--that my physician has installed cameras and an electrode in these quarters in order expressly to prevent my consumption of such pastries. And you must be aware, furthermore, that it would be a most excruciating species of pure dysphoria which I would experience were I to watch you devour that pastry which steams so deliciously on the aforementioned counter. What is your line of thinking here, Tartar? What can this all mean?

What, Tartar? You say that if I don't wish to watch you devour said pastry, I should quite swiftly cover my eyes with my hands? Why, that is hardly the response I, Robert Robus, endeavoured to elicit! And ho! It appears that you are currently dashing toward the counter in order to snarf said pastry down your gullet! Oh, no, Joe: it cannot be! Say that it be not so, thou cruel foe! Yet, lo: after all my lofty (and, may I add, extremely convincing) rhetoric, it appears that you have elected to flout such cogent speech--you really are consuming said pastry! --Why, you scoundrel! I'll get you for this! I'll eat mints--lots of mints--and right in your face, too! And then, owing to the fact that you're short, I shall hold them high in the air, and make you jump for them--and you still won't be able to get them, you understand? Tartar, you cruel imp, I shall eat mints in the vicinity of your green-tinged visage at once! Just allow me to go to the cupboard, and. . .ow! The doctor is shocking me! The doctor is shocking me! But I have not just eaten pie, I say to the cameras: I have not just eaten pie! OW! OW! OW!

[NOTE FROM BLOG ADMINISTRATOR]
Upon further investigation, it has been revealed that Dr. "David McGillicuddy" is actually Snork McGee, a local sociopath who habitually poses as various lofty professional personages for a small fee. Tartar Smith, it appears, was more than willing to shell out said fee for the sake of a little practical joke on his companion, Robert Robus--to whose blog, by the way, readers are advised to return promptly for more ridiculous narratives, as well as further highfalutin commentary, on many engrossing and utterly ineluctable subjects.

Robert Robus and Tartar

Greetings! This is Robert Robus, distinguished personage extraordinaire, here to delight and entertain you. I am joined this evening (and shall be joined in further evenings, dare I to hope) by Tartar, a good friend of mine who does not exercise proper dental care, but who has long been a trusted companion of mine nevertheless. Tartar, may I say that it is a distinct pleasure to have you with me tonight? Good. . .of course, I would have said so whether you allowed me to or not, but that is far askew of the point.

Dear readers, I must at this time note that Tartar likes, above all other things, to eat doughnuts. Krispy Kreme, reportedly, is his favorite imprint, and he eats them almost constantly. I myself can attest to his predilection for ingesting these fried lumps of dough, since I have seen him engorge dozens upon dozens of frosting-infested pastries in a shockingly brief interval of time. (It is this temporal aspect, I believe, which is most highly salient among the characteristics of Tartar's doughnut consumption.)

Now, Tartar, I see you have before you five or six monstrous boxes of doughnuts (which you have ordered in special for the occasion), and my understanding is that you are going to see how many you are capable of cramming into your gullet in ten seconds' time. I am correct? But of course--for I am Robert Robus! At any rate, I see you are choosing to ignore my comments (which, however much hubris they may make nauseatingly manifest, are nevertheless accurate), the rather to begin gorging yourself on pastry. You are a fool; I admire you greatly.

But what's that, Tartar? What is happening? Why are you doubling over and ejecting the contents of your stomach through that strange orifice between your chin and nose? What is that foul residue that reeks so ghastly sour? --Upon my word, old chap. . .you say you vomited? Now why would you go and do a thing like that, Tartar? --What? You say it's related to your recent consumption of that obscene quantity of doughnuts? Why, that cannot be--it must not be true! Correlation does not prove causation; there must have been another causal factor!

Why, look! I see you wore Adidas sneakers today--a most unlucky choice! You should have worn Nikes, my friend, you should have worn Nikes! Readers, we could all learn a thing or two from Tartar: don't wear nonpropitious footwear! At any rate, while these tantalizingly solicitous nurses tend to my ailing friend, I shall now bid you farewell. But before I do, I exhort you to return once more to The Musings of Robert Robus for more vauntiferous musings (and many further ridiculous narratives) from I, Robert Robus. Come back another day, dear readers!

Robert Robus on bananas

The glorious jaundiced entities commonly known as bananas are widely revered as one of the most custardlike fruits known to man. And though the sweet flesh of these slender yellow fruits is highly and undoubtedly esculent, it is against the wishes of I, Robert Robus, ever to consume one. Why, you ask? Because I, Robert Robus, am not descended from apes.

As it happens, I am now in the deep south of this fine country; and, incidentally, a healthy specimen of banana tree (Treeus bananus) can be found not five metres distant from where I, Robert Robus, now stand. Yea, and upon my word!--those fruits sure look delicious! In fact, those pendulous lengths of goodness now appear so edible as to compel I, Robert Robus, to change my tune: I no longer eschew the consumption of such a sugared delicacy!

But wait! What is this I see? Why, it's an adult specimen of lowland gorilla; he's heading straight for that same banana tree; and boy, does he look mean! I shall address him:

Hey--you over there! Yes, I'm talking to you, you dumb ape! Grover, I insist that you relinquish that bunch of slender fruits (which you have so lately and avariciously plucked from yonder tree) to I, Robert Robus!--But what? You refuse? And, furthermore, are you growling at me? How dare you challenge I, you simian swine!

But lo! What is that rustling in the trees not ten yards off?--Why, it's a veritable pack of these infernal creatures. . .and, Jove, do they look irate! Readers, seeing as I, Robert Robus, now deem it prudent to abscond with the picayune stores of dignity that yet remain at my disposal, I hereby bid you adieu. Farewell, dear readers, and. . .hey, you confounded simian! Give me back my hat!

Robert Robus has an execrable day

Why, hello, faithful readers! It is I, Robert Robus, here to disseminate once again the splendorous merriment to which you have become accustomed from yours truly. And yet, perversely, I will not provide it you this evening. You see, I, Robert Robus, am decidedly not in a jovial mood.

I've undergone a thoroughly execrable day. This morning, as I was taking a leisurely stroll by the lake near which I reside, I was attacked by a flock of wild turkeys--not exactly a prime kind of event with which to elicit laughter in my readers! And then, something even less funny transpired: then, after rubbing my newly minted wounds with dirt to stanch the bleeding (which, by the way, didn't prove so efficacious a method as my astrologer would have had me believe), a large ox seems to have mistaken me for a clod of dirt: for he soon proceeded to discharge a substance on me which it surely would violate the strictures of decency and decorum to mention. Then, subsequentially (if it is indeed possible that it be the case), something even less amusing soon came to pass: namely, the fabric of my smoking-jacket soon became entangled in a grain thresher and, as I swiftly divested myself of said garment in order that I, Robert Robus, would not end up in a loaf of bread, I fell instead into a freshly deposited mass of hog excrement.

In sum, dear readers, my day was not entertaining in the slightest; nor, do I imagine, has my account of it provoked anything but sobriety and abject solicitude in you, my faithful readers. I surmise I'll have to concoct any further droll capers on another occasion: for nothing whimsical has happened to me all day.

Robert Robus catches a baseball

Why, hello there! Welcome to the world of I, Robert Robus! Here I am at East 161st Street and River Avenue in the Bronx--which, as it turns out, just happens to be the address of a certain stadium at which a certain sport (which I don't seem at the moment capable of recalling to cognizance) is often played. And it is in this very spot, incidentally, that I have undertaken to examine a book. (For those of you who don't know, a book is a learning implement consisting of a sheaf of pages bound together by glue and other modalities.)

While it is true that I have not been able yet to proceed beyond the proximal chapter of this accoutrement, I am enjoying its contents immensely, I assure you. But hark! What is that noise stirring up from that building which hosts matches of that certain sport I cannot seem to recall to cognizance? If I didn't know better, I would have to call it cheering. And lo! What is that bright sailing orb that appears to be careening right towards the cranium of yours truly? I, Robert Robus, surmise that I must drop this book to the earth in order that I might capture the object, manually, in order that I might remain Vertical. And there! I have just let fly said book from my clutches, and here I am extending my right arm over my noggin in order to catch this strange orb, and. . .OW! The ball is hard! The ball is hard! I think I just smashed some carpals, doc! OW! OW! OW!

[BCD News Update]
The orb, upon further inspection by Robert Robus, appeared to said cybercelebrity to be a baseball. The story has since been corroborated by the NYPD and several drunk, beer-bellied forty-somethings in demotic shirts. No further details are available at this time; for BCD News, this is Kent Grummle, New York.

Robert Robus on trousers

Although I am much too lofty a personage very often to cast an eye toward the subject of trousers, from time to time even I, Robert Robus, find myself compelled to buy more pairs--chiefly for the reason that they have split their seam in a region which it scarcely remains within the bounds of decorum to mention. At such junctures, I find myself making my way to the tailor's, where I make discreet inquiries into the latest cuts of cloth that would be of sufficient calibre to clothe such a distinguished personage as I, Robert Robus.

As it happens, I took a bit of a spill from my phaeton the other Saturday, and soiled my last good pair of trousers. (I suspect the dame I had been pursuing at great speeds in said vehicle to have deposited a stone directly in the pathway of the vehicle's glorious wheels, but proof of this is not currently within the possession of I, Robert Robus.) So now I am on my way to visit old Henry, the village tailor: for old Henry, don't you see, knows the precise dimensions of I, Robert Robus.

Here I am at his dwelling now. Oh, Henry! It is I, your favorite and most distinguished client!--It is I, Robert Robus! Come, now: don't be coy with me--I shan't hurt you, you sly carl! While it is true that I comported myself in a decidedly cheapskated manner the last time I patronized these quarters, I assure you this will not prove to be the case a second time; indeed, this time I, Robert Robus, will not depart before providing you ample remuneration for the garments you have no doubt painstakingly fashioned for such a distinguished personage as I, in response to that telegram I sent to you this morning, and. . .What? Are you calling me a lout? Have you not just deemed me a vile, worthless sludgesucker to this very visage? Who dost thou think thou art, thou churlish, loggerheaded, urchin-snouted bum-bailey? Farewell!
_________________________________________________________________
Please return another day for more from the desk of your favourite cyber-comedian, Robert Robus.

Robert Robus on shoes

As our lowermost accoutrements, shoes generally take the most egregious wear and tear of any vestments I, Robert Robus--or any other human or quasi-human being, for that matter--elect to don. Among the ranks of these venerable chunks of leather, canvas, and/or mesh are found sneakers, loafers, business shoes, etc, etc. . .as well as high heels--a species of shoe which quite admittedly leaves I, Robert Robus, in a state of sensory and cardiovascular arousal to which most every male being, at one time or another, is condemned. Yet I will not allow myself to be aroused by such salacious footwear! For I, Robert Robus, am not easily seduced.

As I was saying, shoes are the most wonderful of accoutrements of which I, Robert Robus, could possibly conceive. They are stitched from the finest of leather (which in turn is culled from the finest of livestock); designed by some of the subtlest minds ever to cause neurons to fire within any cerbral cortex; and marketed by the dames and gentlemen with the loftiest stores of advertising acumen in the history of Western civilization. Indeed, it is solely and completely owing to the prior invention of sneakers that Einstein was able to discov--Oh, but look! Wait a minute, dear readers! A positively ravishing dame in red high-heeled sneakers is strolling this way! I must stay cool! I must stay relaxed! I must assure myself that I, Robert Robus, remembered to take Imodium A-D when I left my abode this fine morn! Does my breath smell sweet and fine? Are my armpits desiccated? Is my visage so finely razed as to match or exceed silk in appearance and delicacy?

Ah, here comes the dame in question. I shall address her:

My lady, may I say that I admire the footwear you've chosen to sport this fine morning? It matches so nicely that scanty skirt (which you have also elected to assume) in both texture and appearance! It would be my wish, of course, to see such vestments quickly doffed; and had I a lamp, I would rub it (so as to summon the genie from out its confines) toward the end of accomplishing such a glorious end. Out here in the countryside there would be no spectators; so what say you, dame?

What? Are you slapping me? Ungrateful dame! I shall tell your mother! And furthermore, I was prevaricating in the discourse which transpired not half a minute previous: I do not, in fact, dig your footwear! Those shoes are not a cause of arousal in me; in fact, they seem rather more inclined to elicit ralphing than delight! And so, with an eye to that very inclination, which I have now duly noted, I must visit that bush not five metres distant from this stretch of lane; and, in conjunction with (and correlative of) that visit, I must also bid you, my faithful readers, adieu. Read my column another day for more illuminating commentary, and many further ridiculous narratives, from the desk of I, Robert Robus.

Robert Robus on gum

These days, a lot of people seem to chew that wondrous conglomeration of mysterious rubbery ingredients commonly referred to as "gum"--this quite irrespective of whether it take the form of chewing-gum, or bubble-gum, or any other form. And although I, Robert Robus, generally eschew the substance, I will admit that yesterday I did try a piece of Big Fred. It burned in my mouth like a glorious conflagration of intense and smarting richness.

While no chewing product in the history of modern gum-chewing--that is, since Francis R. Gumm invented the substance while working as an adherence consultant for William Burtinson's glue empire in 1883--has ever boasted such potency as to set one's mouth quite literally aflame, this fine product from Sprigley comes exceedingly close to that impressive benchmark. The gum is preposterously spicy; and therein lies its greatest attribute. The flavour itself, while passable, surely cannot be held to exceed a five; and the elasticity, while not entirely absent--as in the case of that piece that adhered itself to my alveolar ridge last Friday and has not budged since--is third-tier at best. Yet the blinding spiciness ultimately redeems Big Fred; its winsome causticity and explosive richness make this chew from Sprigley a gum for the ages.

Remember, my faithful: you heard it first from I.