A dialogue on bears

Robert Robus: Although bears are often cute, I'd hate to get in between one and her cubs; for it is said that nature is red in tooth and claw--and verily, I believe that to be the case.

Tartar: If I saw a bear, I'd spit in its face and run.

Robert Robus: I, Robert Robus, would hold that move to be less than wise, my friend.

Tartar: Why? It's fun!

Robert Robus: Why, Tartar! I must say that I am somewhat surprised (though, given your scant intellectual capacities, I probably should not be) that you fail to apprehend that such short-sighted enjoyment--or, as you term it, "fun"--could quickly bring other consequences which, in the long term, might tend to eliminate your capacity to experience pleasure in toto.

Tartar: What do you mean? He'd bite off my joystick or something?

Robert Robus: No, Tartar...I don't think he'd be that precise. (Indeed, ripping you to shreds would seem the more likely outcome.)

Tartar: Ha! That's what you think! But for your information, Robert, I spit in bears' faces all the time, and laugh and laugh and laugh, making fun of their hairstyle, or the dorky way they walk, or how they talk funny and stuff, and I haven't gotten ripped to shreds once!

Robert Robus: Bears don't have hairstyles, you nitwit! Furthermore, they possess fur, not hair! And they don't talk!

Tartar: To me they do. They just think you're boring and an idiot, and they all agree you're not worth talking to.

Robert Robus: I see that, in the court of the public opinion of bears (as you paint it), I, Robert Robus, appear to have little cachet. But I put little credence in your account, friend Tartar; I'm sure that if bears had sufficient intellectual capacity to know what esteem was, they'd hold me high in theirs.

Tartar: Yeah, Bob--whatever helps you sleep at night.

[NOTE FROM BLOG ADMINISTRATOR]
And thus concludes yet another illuminating dialogue in the annals of this reputed blog. Please return another day for more from the hallowed quill of America's favorite cybercomedian, Robert Robus.

Robert Robus smashes a fly

Why, hello there, dear readers; it is I, Robert Robus! This moment finds me sitting in my office, where I read, write, pen epistles--and, in sum, pontificate. But today I am distracted: indeed, I, Robert Robus, have been diverted from my habitual orotund discourse by an instantiation of the species of insect commonly known as "the fly."

And although I must admit I am not fond of crushing bugs, this infernal insect has been buzzing around my head all afternoon, and this in a highly annoying manner--the which, I am sure, will serve to excuse my future violent act in the eyes of many of my readers. So: had I a swatter (which I incidentally do), I would crush this brainless creature into a small, crispy pancake with one swift flick of my wrist.

Ahnd at any rate I, Robert Robus, have now plucked the swatter from the nail off which it habitually hangs; now I shall endeavor to extinguish the buzzing ninny in one fell stroke, ahnd. . .Oops! I just swung and missed, not unlike a hitter in baseball who was swinging for the fences and instead wound up with a lecture, a dislocated shoulder, and a goodly dose of rancor; now I swung again and missed, hitting instead a priceless ming vase (the which, luckily enough, did not shatter as it struck the floor, but instead bounced profusely as if made of rubber); now I'm swinging again, ahnd--YESSS! I got him, folks, I got him; I, Robert Robus, got the sucker! I shall now examine the remains.

--GROOHS!

I shall now return to my regularly scheduled pontification.

Tartar consumes a tube of dentifrice

Greetings; it is I, Robert Robus. I welcome you, once again, to the musings of I. It is a beautiful morning; and, as such, I stand here in the bathroom of my stately abode with my good friend Tartar. Why, you ask? In all truthlessness, it is really quite simple: for Tartar has given word that, in order to complete a bet lately posited by his companion Ronald, he shall soon undertake to consume a tube of dentifrice.

I shall now not unbraggartily admit that I, Robert Robus, have never ingested much dentifrice in one sitting. Of course, there was that time in '86 when an angry cow slammed me from behind and made me ram a tube of Colgate (the which I happened to be holding at the time) well into my trachea; but that doesn't count, folks--that doesn't count! For I, Robert Robus, am much too sensible to snarf dentifrice.

At any rate: Tartar has now activated the "webcam" over which he shall transmit the sure-to-be-priceless footage; now he is smiling perversely into said "webcam"; and now he is eating the toothpaste! Ah, look, folks--observe how he has lifted said tube to his facial orifice; see how skilfully he squeezes the tube of dentifrice so that its thick, gooey contents plunge into his throat. Oh, this is glorious, this is truly glorious; in fact, I may be brought to tears by this display! (But no: for I, Robert Robus, am far too macho a personage ever to snivel.)

And, as Tartar squeezes the the last contents of the formerly gargantuan tube of toothpaste into his facial orifice, gulps down the last tablespoons of the substance, burps, and says into the webcam, "Ha, ha, Ronald, you owe me five bucks," I must bid you, my faithful readers, adieu. Please return another day for more fructiferous musings, and many further ridiculous narratives, from the fecund nib of I, Robert Robus.

Robert Robus on juice

Juice is generally a salubrious and thrilling beverage, though at times it stains one's trousers in places where, frankly, one would rather not be stained. Yet I hold juice in high regard: it is a beverage worthy of worship; it is the most lofty jewel in the crown of our civilization. Whether it be composed of grape, mango, or kumquat substances, or of any other substance, juice is certainly the most resplendent, tasty beverage that has ever been ingested by "humans." And I, Robert Robus, am a "human."

Not that people have anything to do with how good juice is, of course. My pet monkey Bates, for example, quite invariably downs any fruity beverage which happens to be plunked down in front of him. (He also, incidentally, quotidianly snarfs dentifrice and leather--but that's another matter.) And, of course, if a glass of juice has good flavour in the forest and there's no one around to taste it, that does not make it any less glorious.

Take this column, for instance: I, Robert Robus, have absolutely no contingent of fans--with the possible exception of those people who mobbed me yesterday in Central Park and demanded that I dispense with autographs lest they excoriate me with words, that is! Were I to believe that the popularity of a column were always commensurate with its inherent quality, I would be forced to believe that the Musings of I, Robert Robus, were of a worth not dissimilar to chaff. Yet I know that is not the case; the Musings of Robert Robus is, in point of fact, spectacular. The mere fact that almost no one has ever read my column does not impinge one iota on its inherent spectacularity. I am, in fact, grandiose.

And those, dear readers, are my thoughts on juice. Please return another day for more plethorious musings, and many further ridiculous narratives, from the gilded desk of I, Robert Robus.

Robert Robus on guitars

While I, Robert Robus, am much too vaunted a personage ever to strum one of those musical devices commonly referred to as "guitars," I do enjoy hearing an occasional concert by one of my favorite metal bands--to which I will not refer by name, by matter of course, in order to preserve my trademark lofty dignity. Nevertheless, it is really quite titillating to hear a nice electric guitar solo, I must say. Or, my, those choppy power-riffs! How they stir the fine sensibilities of I, Robert Robus.

Today I have with me a C-list guitar god, Mr. Aughsumme J. Riphs, whom I have enlisted in order to demonstrate how an instantiation of said species of instrument is played. Let us all wish said deity a good evening and welcome him to the blog. --Terrific. (No screaming, though, please, Carol.) And, folks, he is now unsheathing his guitar from out its case; he is now connecting the instrument to the sound system of I, Robert Robus, in order that its riffs might be heard; and he has now turned the equipment to the on position. Oh, by the name of Jove, folks, how thrilling this is! I'm telling you, Alan, to stand not five feet distant of a C-list guitar god is simply sublime, ahnd. . .BWAAARRRNG! Oh--he has stuck a chord! O how glorious the sound; O how thund'rous the vibrations; and Jove, how ravished my eardrums!

Indeed, it appears that I, Robert Robus, cannot hear any longer, due to the fact that my tympanic membranes have temporarily burst. (However, I am certain it still sounds grand in here; you show them how it's done, Mr. Aughsome J. Riphs!) Ahnd so, for now, I must bid you farewell. Please return another day, dear readers, for more from the gilded plume of I, Robert Robus.

A dialogue on books

Robert Robus: I, Robert Robus, am a very bookish gentleman; in fact, I read them almost constantly. Whether it is the works of Chaucer, Spenser, or Milton; a masterpiece of Cervantes, Dostoyevsky, or Flaubert; or a modern novel of horror, detectives or romance; I, Robert Robus, have read more pages during the course of my existence than Stephen Hawking has neurons.

Ahnd, while some are in the habit of saying, "I've been reading since I was five," or "I've been reading since I was six," they really mean nothing of the sort. But on the contrary, I, Robert Robus, have actually been reading since I was five years old. To be sure, I take occasional breaks to dust the china or polish my loafers; but, in sum, I read books almost constantly.

Tartar: Uh. . .what's a book?

Robert Robus: Why, it's a learning implement consisting of a sheaf of pages bound together by glue and other modalities.

Tartar: Oh. Do they make cool noises?

Robert Robus: Um. . . no.

Tartar: Can they play MP3s?

Robert Robus: Um. . .no.

Tartar: Are they edible?

Robert Robert: No, Tartar; but verily, I believe you are missing the point. Though books--apart from that euphonious flipping of the pages--are silent; though they have no multimedia or hyperlinking capabilities; and though from them nutriment cannot be derived; they are only the more glorious for lacking such cheap and gaudy features as you put forth, my dear friend.

Tartar: What's a hyperlink?

Robert Robus: A highly stokèd portion of a chain, I imagine.

Tartar: No! It's a strand of the Web, you nincompoop!

Robert Robus: Virgil mentions nothing of that sort in his Ecologues. For that reason, I refuse to give heed to the possibility that something called a "hyperlink" does, in fact, exist--outside the world of metallic catenae, that is. (The word which I have so lately and abstrusely plied is Latin for "concatenations.")

Tartar: Have you ever kissed a woman?

Robert Robus: I've certainly read many stories containing such scenes in which the labial accoutrements of two individuals of the opposite coitus happened to meet. But in any event, dear Tartar, the question is ridiculous and absurd!

[NOTE FROM BLOG ADMINISTRATOR]
I find I must concur with that sentiment. At any rate, Robusionados, please come back another day for more from the desk of Robert Robus, your favorite and most vaunted cybercomedian.

A dialogue on headbutting

Robert Robus: While I, Robert Robus, am much too civilized a personage ever to consider headbutting someone, I do derive some satisfaction from contemplating the thought.

Tartar: I headbutt people almost constantly.

Robert Robus: And have you met any adverse reactions from the recipients of these frequent acts of execrable violence?

Tartar: I've gotten decked a couple of times. In fact, I get decked almost as constantly as I headbutt people.

Robert Robus: Why, it serves you right, I daresay.

Tartar: I'm quite fond of committing these foul acts, thank you very much!

Robert Robus: I don't think that's quite the pertinent part of the matter, Tartar. I hold your behavior (and its concomitant boasting) to be highly reprehensible. Shame on you, you savage fiend!

Tartar: I may be a savage fiend, but I'm a savage fiend who is also your friend.

Robert Robus: Oh, yes. . .I forgot. I'm sorry for deeming you a savage fiend, Tartar. It shall never happen again.

Tartar: Apology accepted. And, Robert. . .

Robert Robus: Yes, Tartar?

Tartar: Your left shoelace-knot has been ripped asunder.

Robert Robus: By the name of Jove! Is that the case? (Looks down.)

Tartar (donking Robus's nose): Is the Pope protestant?--Ha, ha! Got you again, Robert--got you again! (Proceeds to chortle impishly.)

Robert Robus: If Mama Tartar were here, I daresay she'd be doling out a rather harsh spanking right now.

Laughter.
Curtain.

A dialogue about dames

Robert Robus: Tartar, it has been at least a month since last I wooed a dame.

Tartar: Ha!--I get girls daily. What's wrong with you, Robert? Are you a loser?

Robert Robus: No, Tartar. . .it's just that I find myself rather reluctant around dames, and cannot determine, for any situation in which I am mired, the correct phrases to intone.

Tartar: Here's what you do. You say, 'Has anybody ever told you how beautiful you are?' You smile, they smile back, you take their hand, and then you whisk them off to your hotel room.

Robert Robus: And what species of activities, may I ask, might tend to transpire in said hotel room?

Tartar: We'd drink V8 and eat lettuce, you tool.

Robert Robus: Tartar, my dear friend, I'm beginning to suspect that you are employing this term 'tool' in a less than proprietary manner.

Tartar: You're imagining things, chum. I flout you almost constantly.

Robert Robus: Good. For a second there, it occurred to me to suspect that you, good friend Tartar, might possibly be mocking me. At any rate: the last time I undertook to court a dame, I ended up in a nearby lake with bricks tied to my loafers.

Tartar: Next time, I suggest going to someplace other than a motorcycle convention to talk to women.

Robert Robus: I swear, Tartar: I was on my way to an upscale restaurant in a nearby gargantuan cosmopolis, but I got caught in a traffic jam, and there they were.

Tartar: Oh, and you should lose the fedora.

* * * * * * *

[NOTE FROM BLOG ADMINISTRATOR]
To any and all worried readers: be assured that Robert Robus will never, in fact, ditch his trusty fedora.

Robert Robus and Tartar at an amusement park

Verily, Tartar, I like going for the occasional spin on a roller-coaster as much as anyone. It is truly thrilling to careen through space with the aid of such glorious machinery as that with which this park is furnished. This ride which we are next in line for, furthermore, seems it shall prove one of the best: for I, your friend Robert, saw several people barfing at the exit last time it went around.

Ah, and here the module comes now! Tartar, my brave companion, the time has come: for we shall soon be able to mount the seats and experience the ride of our existences! I am so excited, I could do things to these very breeches that it would consitute a breach of decorum even to mention! But, no: that would not behoove me at this juncture.

Well, here we are, Tartar, strapped in to this wonderful machine, ready to be completely and gloriously jolted! (My cardiac organ is veritably drumming in anticipation.) And, oh! The motor is starting up! We're moving! This is glorious! This is celestial! We are speeding up! We are rounding a bend! We are entering a tunnel! We are speeding up more! We are now doing a loop at a zillion miles per hour! We have now broken the sound barrier and produced a sonic boom! By Jove, this is better than the sack! This is better than coffee! This is better than drinking from wine-skins after having lately gotten pricked by a large-horned bull, and--

Whoa! I believe you've saturated your breeches, Tartar! Quite verily, I believe you've soaked them through! One thing's for certain: you shouldn't have drunk all that cola when we were lunching at the funnel-cake stand! (You should have gotten lettuce and V8 like I, Robert Robus!) But I, Robert Robus, promptly forgive you your infantinity. We'll go into the restroom and clean you all up, won't we Tartar?--right after we descend five hundred feet in three nanoseconds' time on this next drop, that is! Farewell, dear readers! May Jove be with you until we meet again!

Robert Robus on soccer

Soccer is a thrilling and glorious sport, though I've never deigned to play it myself. Were the ball to come my way, of course, I would quickly evanesce; but players such as Cristiano Ronaldo seem to do all right. The object of the game is to score a point, or "goal," the which is accomplished by smashing the ball with one's foot until it hits the netting. (One may also use one's head, of course, though said technique is rumored to be less than salutary to one's cortex.)

I talked about the sport to an Englishman the other Saturday, and he claimed the sport was called "football." I retorted that soccer and football were completely different entities, and that, if one does not wear a helmet and shoulder pads and catch an oblong pill, or "ball," then one is not playing football. The Englishman rolled his eyes and walked away. Then I tried to convince a Spaniard that the sport commonly referred to as "fútbol" in his native land should really be called "soccero." My reception was equally sarcastic; and I, Robert Robus, have not a clue why.

While I myself am not a sportive gentleman, I must admit I enjoy watching soccer. Since it was not my wish to be trampled by a legion of enthusiastic fans, however (and I, Robert Robus, seem to possess a marked proclivity for getting trampled by enthusiastic sports fans), I decided to watch the World Cup from my abode. In any event, one thing is clear: whether one calls it soccer or football, it's a decided gas of a time! Tartar and I have been watching all the games--he eating doughnuts, I salad--and rooting for all our favorite teams. While I must admit that it is out of character for such a personage as I, Robert Robus, to take part in such activities, I do send telegrams during commercial breaks and call for my fiddlers three at halftime. So it is verily not that odd.

Please return another day for more vauntiferous musings from the desk of I, Robert Robus.

Robert Robus pens an epistle

Ah! Why, hello, faithful readers! Welcome to another day in the life of I, Robert Robus! Today finds me, fountain-pen in hand, inking a few lines to my mother, Geraldine. So far I have:

Dear Mother,

You, Geraldine Robus, are enshrined in the deepest beatitude: for many years ago you had the great fortune to bear I, Robert Robus! I am great; and, as such, the cachet of my greatness attaches itself profusely to those with whom I associate. When people find out, for example, that Tartar Smith knew I, Robert Robus, in high school (and, further, that he is still my most treasured companion), the checkbooks--and paper on which to inscribe autographs--quickly come out. Yes, the greatness of I, Robert Robus, is supreme; and it is precisely owing to that greatness that you are an extremely fortunate and rectitudinous woman.

Affectionately,

Robert

________________________________

And, while at this juncture I am debating interiorally whether to ajoute a postscriptum to said epistle, I currently believe that I shall not: for I, Robert Robus, hold considerable moral objections to postscripta. And now I shall fold said epistle, and insert it into one of those curious devices compounded of paper and foul-tasting adhesive (which, in the vernacular argot of our time, are commonly held to be "envelopes"); and, voilà! The epistle is ready to send.

Ah, but wait! It is imperative that I ajoute the proper postage to the exterior of the envelope before placing it in the mail! And, to that end, I have here a thirty-nine-cent stamp. The last time I sent a letter, Napoleon was in diapers; but my advisors inform me that thirty-nine cents--no more, no less--shall now suffice as postage. And now I shall lick the stamp, and. . .HELP! HELP! Said stamp has adhered itself to my tongue! Said stamp has adhered itself to my tongue! I can't get it off, folks--I can't get it off! Call my publicist, call a poison control center, bring in the national guard! This infernal scrap of postage has adhered itself to my tongue, and the two newly-bonded entities shall never again be sundered! All is lost, dear readers, all is lost!

I shall now call the hospital with the aim of scheduling an appointment for the surgical removal of said morsel of postage from the tongue of I, Robert Robus. And, with that in mind, dear readers, I must now sign off. I shall convey to you next time the precise nature of the medical advice I shall have received by that juncture. Until next time, dear readers!