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“Bob!”

I rolled over in bed with the hard edge of a beer coma still effecting my innards and the bright morning sunshine cutting into my brain like a samurai sword. It was the fiftieth time that month I promised myself not to drink a case a beer and drop acid in the span of a couple hours. But who the fuck was I kidding? I’d be right back at it the next afternoon, trying to get laid by some chick I never met before.

For a second I tried to figure out just who in the hell was yelling my name this early in the afternoon. I was doing three girls at the time, so I figured it was one a them. Maybe if whoever it was wasn’t too mad at me, she’d come inside for a little oral.

That thought was enough to drag my ass to the door. But when I got there it wasn’t no one I recognized.

“Are you Bob Collins?” She said. It was a woman somewhere in her early forties but not looking a day over four or five hundred. Her hair was already gray and up in a bun and she had this look about her that made me feel like she was trying to figure out how to kill me.

I said, “Who’s asking?”

“You don’t know me?”

“Listen, woman, I fuck just about anything that moves, so if you think I’m gonna remember your ugly face out of a line up, you better check yourself.”

“You never slept with me you disease-addled scumbag! You slept with my daughter and now she’s pregnant.”

I stared at her. Moments like these you can never adequately prepare for; you can think about what you’re gonna do, but until that moment actually gets here, it’s just a bunch a question marks. Now that the moment was here, there was only one thing I could do: I slammed the door in her face. Looking at her was gonna make me puke anyway.

*

You can’t expect an old bag like her to live and let live; she was one a them pushy broads that thinks she got the right to tell you what’s on her mind but you don’t ever have the right to tell her to shut the fuck up.

So what do you think happened?

She started beating on my door and yelling that I’d gotten her daughter pregnant. Around about five minutes later, there was another voice, some other woman, complaining that I’d gotten her pregnant. And about an hour later there was close to two dozen woman all complaining that I blown a load inside them with unintended consequences.

This was just getting a little too much to handle. I still felt like shit from the night before and the volume on my 13″ TV only drowned out so much noise. They were fucking up the Rockford Files.

So I got up, tossed open my window, leaned out, and yelled at the top a my lungs, “Shut the fuck up, you loudmouth American bitches!”

Then I looked down at all a them pregnant women on my stoop like it was a herd a rhinos. They all looked up at me like they was a herd a rhinos.

There was a nice moment a silence when I thought we were gonna have a understanding, then something came flying at me. I tried to dodge it but smacked my head on the window sill, which didn’t do nothing to help me avoid whatever was flying at me. That object hit me and stuck to my cheek. I reached up to wipe it away and my fingers came back brown and sticky with dog poo.

Now, Bob Collins had done some pretty unsavory things in his lifetime, but none of them were bad enough to be pelted with dog crap. Yet, them women still did it.

Next thing I know them women were grabbing at me. “Easy, ladies, there’s enough Bob to go around,” I said as they hauled me out the window.

As soon as I was on the ground, all the jeering and spitting started. And you know I couldn’t help myself. I said, “Ladies, you know I like it better when you swallow.”

A few a them yelled: “Fuck you, bastard!”

And there were some other slurs I have far too much class to mention.

Then the original woman pushed her way through the crowd and stood above me with her solid veiny legs on either side a me. This was the worst thing I ever seen. I don’t think a hundred beers could a made that broad look good.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” She said to me.

I said what I always said when I didn’t have anything to say: “Fuck you!”

“Why you piece of shit!” She cried out, then tried to stomp on me. “You do this to my daughter and now she’s gonna be stuck with your kid for the next eighteen years?”

“She don’t have to,” I yelled. “Ain’t no one making her.”

“Then you better for over the money for an abortion,” she yelled, and the other women all cheered behind herm.

“I don’t got that kind a money,” I said. “Besides, if I did, I’d be buying more beer with it, not paying to take care a your daughter’s problem.” I got to my feet. “Now, go fuck yourself, you old bag.”

I ran inside to the jeers and calls a the other women. But, like usual, I didn’t feel too good about what I’d done.

*
Next morning she came back. She was calmer this time. She wanted to talk so I let her in.

We sat on my couch. Wasn’t much to do, but my head was spinning from the 38 beers I drank the night before, and Big Ole Cock was itching for a licking. It’d been 26 hours since he’d gotten any action–quite a dry spell for him.

I stared at the woman. She was about the most physically revolting creature I’d ever seen. Her legs looked like rotten saplings and with all a them blue veins stacked one on top a the other like cordwood, I figured there was some bugs running around her legs. Termites holes up in her snatch.

She sat there with that ugly face a hers molded into despicableness through her adult years. I don’t think she could see nothing in the world but her own ugliness.

Her personality wasn’t nothing to admire, either.

So what does Bob Collins do in a situation like this–a situation when he’s drunk off his ass (which happens most a the time), going through a dry spell, and hornier than shit?

He says, “Suck my dick?”

The gnarled old woman answers, “Is it really THAT BIG?” With a voice so soft she sounds more like a teenage girl.

I said, “Only one way to find out you beaten down old hog.”

She studied me out a them rheumy eyes, somehow peering around the cataract clusters at me and the bull phallus nearly as long as my thigh. “I can’t. I promised my daughter I wouldn’t.”

“But you’re curious.”

“I never saw a man with a horse penis,” she said. “But I didn’t come here to talk about your junk, Bob.” The husky, deep throat voice of ten thousand packs a cigarettes was back. “My daughter says she loves you, but she can’t handle no kid right now. She’s starting school again in the fall. She’s going places, Bob. Gonna be a dental technician.”

“It ain’t my problem,” I said. Personal responsibility has never been one a my strong suits.

“You’re the bastard that got her in this jam.”

I don’t take too kindly to accussations neither, especially when they can’t be proved.

“Tell her to keep her knees locked,” I said.

“You’d just make her bend over,” the old woman growled. “I know how men like you work.”

It was true. I wasn’t the kind a guy to let locked knees stop me. There’s more than one angle to penetrate a problem.

“Listen, Bob, I ain’t a woman of means or resources. This situation my daughter is in, you gotta take some a the blame. I’m asking you to do what’s right. Pay for the doctor.”

I barely heard what she said. Big Ole Cock was so ready to spurt, I might a got myself off just thinking about her daughter.

“Listen, lady, I don’t even know who your daughter is.”

“You creep,” she said. “Disgusting, perverted, foul-mouther creep.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear it before. Why don’t you help me out?” I pointed to Big Ole Cock. “It’s been over 24 hours. My balls is starting to ache.”

The old lady stood up on them veiny rickety wickets. “You better change your mind about this, Bob. Or I will come after you with everything I got.”

“I always cum first,” I barked, “then I walk away.”

I got up and opened the door. “You can leave now, granny.”

She growled and stomped out.

I didn’t expect to see her ever again. But sometimes things don’t work out the way you want them to.

But since I wasn’t none the wiser to the future at that moment, I went upstairs to Brandi’s house. When she answered, she had a bump on her stomach.

“What’s that?” I said.

“It’s what’s left of that three-way we had a while ago, Bob. I’m pregnant.”

“That means you can’t get pregnant again, right?”

She nodded. “Right.”

“They why don’t you do an old friend a favor. It’s been 26 hours and…”

*

Branding and Other Ways to Enhance Your Online Reputation

Branding is a hot topic. Seems like every writer is trying to establish a personal brand.

Well, guess what? I don’t have to.

And why not? What makes me so special?

I’m Bob Motherfucking Collins. That’s what makes me special.

I only have to do what Bob Collins does. That makes everything I do special–automatically.

You wanna read about branding. Here, check out this article. Or this one. It’s got some good ideas too. And if you follow all a those tips, you’ll magically be at the top a the Internet.

What! You don’t think it works like that? It sure does.

Let me share a story with you.

Back when I was fourteen years old, I had a pretty big dick. It wasn’t the full eleven and three-quarter inches I got now–that didn’t happen till I was 15–but it was still pretty big. I started showing it off to some girls in my school. No big deal. Just, you know, in the woods, stuff like that. But pretty soon word got around I was packing a canon.

How’s that for word of mouth advertising?

Pretty soon girls were asking me to see it. And I was never the kind a guy who could upset his customers. So I showed it off. To anyone who wanted a look.

It was only a matter a time before they wanted to touch it, then lick it, then fuck it.

By that time, my reputation was set. I had my brand. Biggest dick in Lakewood.

But you see what I did? Did you pay attention to my strategy here? I did absoluely nothing special. I just showed off my dick. I didn’t try to go find some fancy angle on things. I just worked with what God had seen fit to give me. Lord knows I ain’t got to much brains, so I didn’t try to impress ’em with the answer to Jeopardy questions. But I had a big dick. I worked with it.

So, what can you learn from my story?

1) If you don’t got something special to offer your customers, you’re fucked.

That’s all.

Bob’s Biggest Secret

I know I try to come off as a hardass all the time. Usually I’m pretty good at it; I get in fights and win at least half the time. But there’s other times I’m a hardass too. Like all a them times I said I ain’t never been in love until I met Janice. Well, that just ain’t true. I was in Love with one other girl a long time ago.

Her name was–well, I’ll just call her Belle–her name was Belle. I ain’t never spoken about her before because even years after all them disasters happened just the thought a her still hurts me. And there ain’t really any reason for me to talk about her now other than I’m alone in my hotel room in Bangkok, I’ve just fucked four sour-faced whores, and for some stupid reason I miss her.

Call me a dumbass because I am one. You gotta be stupid to still think about that one that got away when you’ve done fucked half a Cleveland and half a Bangkok in the meantime.

It was always my way to see women for what they are–interchangable places to stick my dick.

But not Belle. There was something diffefent about. Not really sure what it was that was different about her but I could sense it the way I knew all a them other broads weren’t nothing.

And that’s all I’m gonna say for now.

Belle, if you’re out there, I just wanna let you know I still miss you.

What is the Number One Technique for Improving Your Writing?

Beer.

I know what you’re gonna say. Bob, it ain’t healthy to drink and type. But let me tell you something: The best ideas come out a my head when my brain is fucked up on a case a beer. Sometimes it seems like the more I drink, the better I write.

Case in point… The second volume of the Adventures of Bob Collins is underway. I couldn’t think of a climax for the story. I just kept swirling the scenario around in my head, drawing up blanks. And believe me I tried everything. I walked all over Bangkok trying to bring this volume to a head. But I couldn’t come up with nothing.

Until I drank some beer.

Soon as that first sip touched my liver, my creativity went into hyperdrive. By the time I had 36 cans in me, I’d devised the best climax this story could ever have.

But the only way you’ll ever know is to buy the sonofabitch when it goes live.

Until then, get drinking and get writing.

Bob.