Robert Robus on hermitude

While I, Robert Robus, was in my youth an exceedingly social personage, in recent decades I have settled into a state of increasing isolation. While I don't know precisely how (or hwy) this has happened, somehow it has come about that I, once a paragon of panache and social graces, now rarely leave my abode.

Although of course I am roundly criticized for this development, in recent months I, Robert Robus, have learned to enjoy the strange pleasures that come with hermitude. I have found, for example, that, contrary to what my Aunt Clancy might have led me to believe in years past, I like drinking milk right from the bottle. I have also decided that I like to lodge walnuts between my toes, and later to augment them with Craisins. I have also decided I like wisky; and I drink that potent substance accordingly.

I have also decided I like Latin; I study it with a pertinacious assiduity rarely glimpsed in cybercomedians. Yet, despite my many hours spent poring over Wheelock in the wee hours of the night, and reading Latin-English/English-Latin dictionaries as if they were the Aeneid, I seem to have only impressed upon my cortex one verb: bibo, bibere, bibi (Latin for 'hitting the sauce').

At any rate, over the course of the past few months I have digressed into such a state of hermitude that I have temporarily lost my sense of vision. How do I know this, you ask? For I, Robert Robus, cannot see a thing! Ahnd...OW! OW! OW! Terrible place to put a coat rack; execrable milieu in which to deposit a rollerskate; egregious locality in the confines of which to ensconce a life-sized, robotic replica of Sammy Sosa swinging a bat at far too low a level! I must say, it's really quite lousiferous to be blind, and...

Hey! A light switch! (Flips it.) I can see; I can see! I have not lost my precious vision due to hermitude; it was merely a passing illusion! (Taking on a smug assurance the which is astonishing chiefly in the repentine nature of such assurance:)--Ahnd so, that great mystery resolved, I shall now proceed to the stovetop to prepare myself some pasta. I'll leave further discussions of hermitude for when Tartar has returned from the hardware store; for he, as much as I, is a seasoned expert in hermitude, I assure you. Until then, farewell!

Robert Robus consoles a college sophomore very dear to he

I, Robert Robus, have recently been saddened by the news that a certain college sophomore very dear to I, Robert Robus, has been mired in a state of dysphoria. Now first, let us note that dysphoria is rather more prevalent among sophomores than in students of any other stature. Second of all, let us note that the word 'sophomores' is pronounced in three syllables, not two: SAWF-UH-MORZ, SAWF-UH-MORZ, SAWF-UH-MORZ. And ninth, Robert Robus loves this particular sophomore, whom he has known practically since the birth of the sophomore. So he sends out his sincerest best wishes to he, and lets him know that he may e-mail I, Robert Robus, at rrobus (underscore) 1 (at) yahoo (dot) com, any time he feels dysphoric and believes he would derive consolation from a correspondence with the cybercomedian.

Robert Robus notes that it is always good to be aware of university policies, whether or not use will actually be made of them. He also reminds the sophomore that life is better ingested when broken up into bite-sized chunks, not unlike the neanderthals who consumed mammoths in the fifth century BCE or years proximate. But surely, some sophomores might prefer, in this our modern age, to think in terms of large blocks of tofu chopped into delicious little cubes--and, for his part, this cybercomedian approves said conception. The process, of course, also bears a striking resemblance to a string of pearls--or perhaps a rosary.

Robert Robus sends all his best wishes to the sophomore in question, and hopes that the column of he, Robert Robus, has inspired him to devour his books in small, bite-sized pieces--and, yes, Robert Robus is speaking metaphorically.

Love,
Robert Robus

Top ten ways to read the musings of I, Robert Robus

1. In the quiet of your abode.
2. With your daily digital newspaper (and daily digital coffee).
3. On your laptop, in the middle of a crowded, silent room, laughing uncontrollably.
4. By copying the feed link (displayed in the sidebar for your great convenience) into your newsreader, such as Bloglines (which also possesses a link in the sidebar, for your great convenience), so as to receive the latest heapings of hilarity from the blog of I, Robert Robus, served along with other splendiferous web-based, feed-enhancèd content of your choice. (I say 'splendiferous' because surely, readers who elect to paste my feed link to their newsreaders will no doubt possess refined, unimpeachable taste in all things web.)
5. Whenever you are at table snarfing a meal, and wish for the contents of your facial orifice to be immediately projected at high speed across the room.
6. While explaining to your friends just how incredibly hilarious the musings of I, Robert Robus, truly are, and promising to e-mail them the URL so as to encourage their further perusal of the site.
7. While wooing a dame.
8. By printing off a copy of the latest post, and reading it over the intercom (if one exist) of your current school, workplace, or institution.
9. While browsing the web on your web-enabled cell phone (which, of course, will feature The Musings of Robert Robus ensconced within the rather more lofty reaches of your list of bookmarked sites).
10. While drinking juice, snarfing pies, sneezing uncontrollably, strumming guitars, and/or taking ill-fated trips to the local mall.

Robert Robus's top ten grossest substances ever ingested

Due to the overwhelming (and, might I add, touching, sniff sniff) reader response to my last entry, another stunning exemplar of the perspicaciously splendiferous Top Ten Lists of I, Robert Robus, is clearly in order. And so, without further ado, voilà.

Top ten grossest substances ever ingested by a human or quasi-human being

1. Shoe leather.
2. Mustard-infested frankfurters.
3. The morsel of beef jerky that passed through my large intestine last Thursday.
4. My aunt Bertha's nasal secretions.
5. That pack of flies that entered my oral cavity as I was out riding in my carriage with my facial orifice augmented through means of jawular apertitude last Friday.
6. Dentifrice.
7. Easy Cheese.
8. That foul matter I scraped off the bottom of my earwax-patty-frying skillet last week and, for reasons of economy and panache, did not wish to leave unconsumèd.
9. Those mysterious growths on trees I've been snarfing of late, the which bear a striking resemblance to Nilla Wafers, but, in retrospect, were probably not. (Staggers over to corner, perishes.)
10. The block of limburger cheese which, before having been eaten by Tartar five minutes ago, had not seen refrigeration since 1985.

[NOTE FROM BLOG ADMINISTRATOR]
Extra credit if anyone can answer the question "Who is Monsieur Mangetout?" and propound the nature and species of items he consumed during the course of his illustrious existence.

Robert Robus's top ten ways to be the best cybercomedian ever

Today, I have elected to introduce another feature to my repertoire of risible oratorio-verbalistic concatenations of humorous ambrosia. And thus, I present you with the first of Robert Robus's Top Tens.

Top ten ways to be the best cybercomedian ever

1. Be Robert Robus.
2. Write entries as hilarious as the ones of I, Robert Robus.
3. Pontificate endlessly in quasi-British manner.
4. Engage in ridiculous narratives both with and without thy best friend, Tartar.
5. Possess a pet monkey named Bates.
6. Miss trains.
7. Show contrariety toward radio announcers, especially those that have the good fortune to bear the name 'Benson Mooney.' (Hello, Benson, old chap!)
8. Say 'I'm sure if bears had sufficient intellectual capacity to know what esteem was, they'd hold me high in theirs' almost constantly.
9. Run fingers through female attendant Ayvana's hair plethorially at least twice a week.
10. Build a bionic anthropoid that thinks precisely like I, Robert Robus, and consult it when composing blog entries.

A trip to the mall

In case you have yet to note the crucial facts of the universe, I am Robert Robus, the world's most vaunted cybercomedian. Today I'm taking my sidekick, Tartar, to a local mall, where we shall browse merchandise, ingest low-caliber repast, and ogle dames. We are just now pulling into the parking lot--ferried always, of course, by our chauffeur par excellence, Rutland Orison.

Rutland, you can leave us here; we shall be ready to be picked up at eight, by which time we shall each have snagged a dame. Bring the finest of wine with you when you return, old chap: for we shall have laid the groundwork for an exceedingly voluptuous time by then, and would hate to be caught sans bubbly. --Very well, dear Rutland. Farewell.

Now, Tartar, where do you wish to go first? In this wing of the mall there is a Radio Flack, an Orange Foolius, and a Chicktoria's Secret. To which of these fine establishments do you desire to repair? --Why, Tartar, I must say! That was an exceedingly swift decision on your part, and--

Hello. Yes, I'm looking for a brassiere for a future girlfriend of mine. She is sweet, kind, solicitous, refined, prefers leather, and--What? You're asking me the size of her bustline? Why, what an impertinent question, you ill-mannered woman!

Tartar whispers something to Robus.

Oh! I beg your pardon, madam.

You see, I'm not quite sure at this juncture: for I've yet to determine certain details vis-à-vis my girlfriend, the greater part of which touch chiefly upon issues of, um, existence and identity. (Glances out shop window.) --But, my word! Perhaps those issues shall soon be resolved: for I, Robert Robus, have just caught sight of a shapely young dame. One moment, please.

Robus fleetly quits the establishment, approaches the dame in question, and utters an indeterminate phrase. The dame widens her eyes, lets out a shriek, and slaps Robert. Robert returns with a red handprint on his left cheek, and assumes a stately posture.

Friends, at this juncture I must assert that I know body language, and I know women. And, although it may not appear so to the untrained eye, this dame wants to date me--badly.

Now, the precise dimensions of this woman's bust become clear upon but a single glance; please ring me up twenty of your finest brassieres in that size. (My sweet darling, you and I shall spend a romantic evening together in my jacuzzi; we'll look deep into each other's eyes; we'll do things to which neither decorum nor late-night cable television permits even a reference.) Good friend Tartar, I hope you took note of my method of snagging dames: for otherwise it will surely prove of great difficulty to you to procure, as I have done, a suitable--

By this juncture, Tartar is out in front of Chicktoria's, where a drop-dead-gorgeous blonde is falling all over him. Robus takes in the situation with a quick glance and, collecting himself with stately dignity and assuming a prestigious countenance, turns to the clerk and asserts:

Everything that boy knows, he learned from I.