I was reflecting recently on how it must be, to be Uncle Bob.
Uncle Bob is this old, overweight caucasian who hangs around my favorite building all the time. Slightly balding, big spectacles, an impatient white-ass voice … you get the idea.
I’ve never seen him with anyone, while he reads his paper or drinks his coffee, and I always take that as a sign of how no one really likes him. I was watching once while he gave a waiter a chewing-out for not understanding something he said. If you’ve ever been in my country, you’d know how we fucking lick the ground that foreigners walk on, so don’t even think it was because the waiter was being an asshole.
It’s just that Uncle Bob is a big fat prick. He thinks he’s better than anyone in this country full of primitives.
Anyway, so I noticed him again the other day while having a meal in that same restaurant. Still alone, still reading his paper, still drinking his coffee. I couldn’t help wondering how it is that he’s still sane.
… my God he must masturbate like six or seven times a day at least