Marlene B wrote a whole bunch of stuff I'd just as soon not repost.
Maybe this should be rated "R"...
 
They named WHAT after me?  Should I be humiliated or impressed?  I've had
people tell me they've named ferrets after me, but really!  I had a lady
once tell me she named a son after me.  She was having a baby and her
husband was out on his UPS rounds, so I <ahem> made the delivery.  I was
17 at the time, and it has taken me a long time to get over the trauma of
seeing a baby's head in a place where all my reference "material" only
showed extensive airbrushing.  Scared me so much I almost became a V-Bob.
I was deathly afraid to touch anything, so it was a miracle I caught the
little booger as he plopped out.  I carefully wrapped the baby in my
jacket, handed him to the poor lady, and as soon as she kissed my cheek
to say thanks, I blushed a deep red.  It's been that way since.  I recall
that cool evening in Atlanta.  People were warming their hands on the
heat from all my blushing.  I was so red, every time I looked outside,
cars would stop.  That's the reason they did it, you know.  Once they
realized I was a blusher, all bets were off.  They dragged me everywhere
and all I wanted was a ride home.  In California, the Wacky Twins took
me to a restaurant with belly-dancing.  Really good professional belly
dancing by a beautiful sprite of a lady.  At one point, her belly was
less than a foot from my nose, her hips jiggling like both needed metal
replacements in a hurry, and I couldn't even look!  But I did get
applause from the other diners for being so red.  The same thing happened
to me in Amsterdam.  Here is the really sweet lady, a person for whom I
have tremendous respect so I will not name, and she is trying to drag me
into the Sex Museum.  I made a bee-line for the gift shop, so they all
followed me in, and what did someone buy me?  A lighter with flashing..
well, you can guess the feminine parts.  I was told it was a Bobbie
Lighter.  I resolved right then and there to go back to Holland as soon
as possible.  Just call me Dutch Bob.
 
As for sniffin' my booty, well, just remember I love tacos, refried
beans, chilies, and beer.  And about in that order.  I had all four the
night before I went to visit Lisa in hospital...I had to beg her to let
me leave the room to go buy her a Pepsi...several times.  When I was
done, she had a half-dozen sitting on her bedside table "for later."
I'm so old now that I'm at the point of needing to wear Depends before
I risk poofin'.  Hey, when you are full of crap, things get loose--it
is simple physics.  If you want to get the real poop on the story, when
I was in the Navy, they made me wear a flight deck jersey that said,
"Warning: Blast Zone!"  Hey, don't get mad at me for bad puns; what do
you expect from an old fart?  I know these jokes stink, but its the best
I can do-do.
 
Be warned!  I'm going to eat a lot of tacos and refried beans on Friday
as I drive easterly on Bob time.  Where is North Carolina anyway?
 
Bob C  [log in to unmask]
 
"You're Bob?  I *love* your posts!  I save them for reference!" [Do you
like reading them?] "Oh, not really.  They are so long and scientific.
But I know they're good so I save them to read later.  I really like the
jokes.  Well, not the puns."
Told to Bob C at the Ferret Symposium, by someone who knows exactly who
they are and I won't forget. ;-)
[Posted in FML issue 4883]