For Black History Month: Bob’s Homecoming

This is Bob Trout’s story and not mine, so I’ll do my best to transcribe:

When we came back from Vietnam, the protesters were waiting for us. It wasn’t just yelling and a little spitting, it was a lot of throwing stuff. We had nowhere to go and no way around it. And these cabbies, all black guys, just came in and rescued us. They were taking bottles and shit. And they just rolled on in and took the guys to the strip clubs and bars and whorehouses, wherever they needed to go, without any complaint and at some real personal risk. I want everyone to know about that.

And as usual, we get a different perspective on everything from Mr. Trout.

PURCHASE MY AMATEURISH CRAP RIGHT THIS INSTANT

I have had a Zazzle Store for quite a while and never really promoted it, but I have a total of TWO products.

1. The “Bob is Love” U.S. postal stamps, in a variety of denominations, featuring a touching and artistical black & white photo of Mr. Bob Trout, my best friend and an icon of the greater Newport-Mesa area:

 

2. The tiresome “nerd freedom” Software is Speech shirt, featuring said slogan on the front and what I am pretty sure is the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America in binary on the back. You see, it’s cool because it’s nerdy and also because you can stand up for an abstract idea of freedom without any risk simply by purchasing an inexpensive consumer item:

The back of the shirt

 

Go buy lots of both now.

Bob speaks: The collection call.

I got one of those calls. A young kid said “Sir, if you are unwilling to pay the amount owed, you’ll have to talk to Mr. James.”

“Listen to me for a second, kid. You work for Mr. James, and he drives a Porsche, and you want to park your Toyota Tacoma next to his Porsche, and you’re an office boy with aspirations, and you believe that this is how it works. I don’t think you understand.

“I have worked at an establishment similar to yours. I was a skip tracer, you probably know the phrase.  A skip tracer is an alcoholic murderer who has done hard time, and learned hard things during the hard time. Someone who really does not give a shit. I think you understand.

“And I will find you, because that is what skip tracers do, and I will be waiting in the parking lot with a baseball bat to smash the windows out of your fucking Toyota Tacoma and then smash your fucking skull in and smash Mr. James’ face in as well, if you ever fucking call me again. I think you understand.”

There were no more calls.