kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"Bob_3.0"

words

Bob_of_Dune_or_What_my_mind_had_for_tea

Gas is a vapour. Most people realize this. It causes one's nose to wrinkle up in despair and it causes one to look around ashamedly in mixed company. In modern times it causes your pockets to empty and perhaps will one day cause certain parts of the earth to collapse (this last being due to lack of gas). What is not commonly accepted is the fact (and yes, it is a FACT1) that the mind is also a gas. Hence the commonly used term brain fart. This term is much more apt than the users of it realize on a conscious level, although to think is to be, and therefore the mind does realize that it is a gas. It happens to be very cognizant of this fact, and is rather ashamed: hence the mind's subconscious refusal to allow the conscious mind access to this fact. However, at certain times, it's rather hard to ignore, and the subconscious simply can't hide it.

Bob's_Mind was expanding. It's hard for it not to when it's no longer encompassed by that nasty bone container. Skulls are the work of the evil space aliens. Or something like that. Thoughts of pink flamingos, peach trees, and little green smiley faces threatened to overrun Bob's_Mind. In order to survive this onslought, Bob's_Mind decided it needed some clarity. To this end, Bob's_Mind renamed itself. However, it was having a really long day, was at a low point of creativity, and was rather harried by the pink flamingoes (they wouldn't stop their SQUAWKING4).

_ren Bob's_Mind Bob mv Bob's_Mind Bob " I am Bob!" " Bob am I!" "I will not eat green eggs and Bob!" " Bob I am!" "I will not eat Bob!" " I am Bob!" cp Bob's_Mind Bob; del Bob's_Mind_

Perhaps the last was most apt at describing what had happened. Bob looked around at what he saw, and saw stuff. Lots of stuff. Or should it be said lots of stuffs. Because there were. Bob was not the first Bob to expand in such a way. Billions had since the time of the first word5. Of these probably one in a thousand managed the first step of staying cohesive. Of those perhaps three remained on this planet; the rest became sand-worms. But that's not to say that Bob was alone. Bob had the entire world to rediscover. (not to say that Bob had actually discovered anything in Bob's time... er... the time of the body of Bob, not Bob, er.. yeah. Like I said. Bob was in a rush.) The troposphere looked at Bob and breezed a balmy HELLO. Bob said hello noncommittally and made a rather oopsical6 mistake. Bob looked down.

Of course this isn't always a mistake, so it really wasn't Bob's fault. Sometimes looking down can win you a life-long friend: avoiding that ant who was running late for work and decided to cut across the pavement. Sometimes looking down can in turn save your life: turning a corner and realizing that if you took another step you'd plummet 40 stories to your death. Sometimes looking down can simply avoid a social blunder: dog refuse or someone else's foot. However, there are times that looking down can be very bad. This was one of those times.

It wasn't the fact that he was hundreds of miles above the earth that really frightened him. The fear of hitting the ground didn't even really frighten him, although it did a little. Bob had not yet come to terms with the fact that he no longer had Bob to hold him back. The thing that frightened Bob was all those little circles blotting out the ground. He began to panic:

"AAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Fish began to fall from the sky.

The troposphere looked at him in wonderment. He had not seen a Bob so emotionally overrun for some centuries. Luckily, the troposphere did realize that this reaction was not a normal one and that something must be done. A little voice in the troposphere's mind told him to RTFM.7 He quickly flipped through the pages of his little black book for the index.... worry... nope.... scare... nope... despair... nope... misgiving, nervousness, anxiety, nope. The troposphere looked at the cover of the book in disgust and felt really really stupid.

Bob meanwhile was still in the grip of fear that the view of the space aliens had put him in. Due to the fact that Bob, as most Bobs, had no need for oxygen, he rather hadn't discontinued his dissertation of his feelings on this subject. In fact, his exclamation grew to new, more feverish heights.







"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

A large sperm whale and a potted petunia fell from the sky. The petunia looked at Bob as it fell past with a great feeling of Deja vu, especially after it said, "not again."

The troposphere, after fumbling about Bob for a short bit, managed to calmly place a hand upon his shoulder8. After another moment of unsurity, the troposphere looked Bob straight in the eyes. Bob was trapped by his stare but had still not shut up. Then the troposphere did as he knew he must, and uttered the words that were to be Bob's salvation. DON'T PANIC.

The fish stopped falling. The sperm whale managed to fall into the ocean. After a few months' recovery, it was well on its way to writing a sonnet describing its fondness for water. It called it, "Ode to Blue". The petunia crashed in the New Mexico desert and spent several agonizing days dehydrating and eventually dying.

All of a sudden a calm nothingness overtook Bob... he felt numb... his jaw slacked and his screaming stopped. He remembered with great clarity his mission. He must save those pathetic primates that were obsessed with their excretions and their mothers. Bob the detached scientist realized his full potential as Bob the leader of those pathetic primates that were obsessed with their excretions and their mothers. He felt the title rather unsufficient to describe the position he had in mind, and decided to name the post Bob. He, Bob, was going to become Bob! He said as much to the troposphere as he rushed off to save, well, you know.

"Me Bob! Me go become Bob!!!"

The troposphere watched Bob's receding non-form in uncertainty. He looked at the cover of his book, back at Bob, then at the cover of his book, and then back at Bob. After weeks of deliberation over this, the troposphere shrugged its shoulders, dislodging one gigantic piece of hail that had been sitting uncomfortably upon them.

"-crackle- -crackle- -static- In related news, the worlds' largest piece of hail fell in the middle of the New Mexico desert, causing -crackle- static- -crackle-"

By the time the troposphere had in effect shaken it's head twenty times, Bob's_Mind was long gone.

Bob traversed the world, astonished at the extent of the alien invasion. Every single electronics store had at least 50 of these round ships hovering over it. He decided he should search from the beginning to see if he could find any clues as to where they came from or what they were here about: perhaps what could stop them. Bob drifted towards the place where his corporeal body had been so abused that first night. When the electrical cords first had attacked him. He would make them sorry they had not succeeded.

He arrived at the house. There were easily four hundred alien spheres lying in wait. He decided to try to circumvent them and see what could be seen. As he snuck around the side of the building, he hit an invisible wall. He pushed and pushed at it and it seemed to give a little... and then he could remember nothing. He shook in confusion. Those evil space aliens! They were almost upon him! He had accidentally set off one of their intruder alarms: a mental whoopie cushion! He had no time to think.

He fled.

_Over and under and through the woods Over and under and through the woods Over and under and through the woods_

Slowly, he began to realize that he was no longer being chased by the evil space aliens. Even more slowly, he began to realize he had no idea where he was.

There are many different shades of dark. There's the I can no longer see my hand two feet in front of me but if I squint and put it right in front of my face I can sort of make out a blob dark... There's the oh, the moon is out, isn't this pretty dark. There's the I'm seeing monsters and they're scaring me dark. And then there's the yes I think black is a really good motif for an apartment, don't you dark. There's even the I've got my eyes shut so you can't make me see anything nyeah nyeah nyeah dark. But this wasn't any of those. This wasn't a dark most people would recognize. Bob recognized the fact that he didn't recognize this dark. But it was DARK.

"Mission control? I'm starting to feel something... mission control? mission control?" The voice came down from above (as things coming down are wont to do). It drifted fuzzily, and Bob realised that well, he was rather experiencing a unique dark. He was fully realizing the ohmigod my non-molecules are actually mixing with the underground matter such as dirt and concrete dark. He was in the ground. If he had a body, he'd PHYSICALLY be in the ground. It's that sort of in. Not merely under.

He was the ten percent chance of random teleport IN the ground.

"Mission control? Hey, George, wake the fuck up! ... Yeah, lazy bum. Quit going to sleep like that. What if the boss saw you? ... yes you do! What would Frannie and the kids do if that happened? ... George... I think you need to see a counselor. Ah well, go back to sleep see if I care. I'll just go back to playing solitaire, shall I? ... Yes, that's right. Goodnight."

Bob slowly drifted upwards. His thoughts were rather muddled9, so it was hard for him to travel. Eventually he managed to get his head clear (of the ground) and found himself in another darkness, one more associated with really bad movies. It was the end of the world stuck in a nuclear reactor or missile silo or something like that dark. A light proving the cognisant level of the government flickered on and off on one of the rounded walls. He saw a large large (really large) stick of metal pointing vertically. He heard someone muttering under their breath behind him. Slowly a brilliant idea began to form in his mind.

_Saeurkraut and spinkerdunk. Butter... NO! Butter... Butter! Buttermilk! Could it really be? Buttermilk?_

Bob turned around, the idea fresh in his mind.

"Excuse me sir, could you tell me? Does that thing have buttermilk in it?" Greg thought to himself furiously. Great, now I'm hearing voices. Just what I need. Well, I can freak out... or... I can call up George and talk to him and try to drown the voices out... I could pretend I don't hear them... Or I can insult their intelligence and hope they shut up.

"Yeah, kid. That there's got 100 million tons of buttermilk in it, just waiting to be shipped to Ethiopia. Yep, that's it."

"!!! ... !!! ... !!! Buttermilk!"

"Hey now, take it easy, chill down, don't spazz on me, Mr. Voice From Nowhere. This isn't a good place to have a fit..."

"Buttermilk! Buttermilk! Buttermilk! I can save the world! They will call me Bob!"

"Bob? So you say your name is Bob? Don't happen to know any Bobs... where ya from, Bob?"

"Buttermilk!" Bob slowly took over his facilities. Reason. Calm. Think. "Are there more like that one around here?" "Yeah, hundreds, what of it. Thirsty or something?" He laughed at his own joke.

Oh no! The aliens were on to him! They must be starting to take over this Greg being. Possessed beings often began to laugh during hostile takeovers... He must hurry before Greg was taken over completely! "Greg, tell me, quickly! Is there a way to change where the large metal sticks are sent to? Please, tell me, before your mind is completely taken over!"

Greg started laughing harder than ever. "My god man, yeah, sure they could be sent elsewhere. What would you like, a Fed Ex to every Major city in the U.S.? All I have to do is swivel this dial, punch in a few names, and then hit that button right there..." Bob's hope soared! If he could send one to every of the major cities of the world, he could perhaps destroy all the evil space aliens!

"but *hehehe* this is absurd. There really isn't buttermilk in those. In fact, It'd be my job and the human race's extinction if I did that. Do you know what's really in those?"

Bob was worried. He wasn't sure if the information Greg had told him just before he was fully possessed could be believed. But it was all he could act upon. The aliens were on to him and if he hesitated it might be too late to save the world. He must be Bob! He must become Bob! He hastily began making the appointed adjustments, sending a large metal stick filled with buttermilk to every major city.

Meanwhile, Greg was freaking out, unable to see the attacker, hollering at George to wake up and find out what the fuck was going wrong with his controls, to tell him he was dreaming, to HEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLL ---------------------------------- 1:FACT- falsely acclaimed complicated theory2 2:THEORY- thingy everyone ought really yammerabout3 3:YAMMER- you DON'T want to know 4:SQUAWKING- you REALLY don't want to know 5:the first word- Bob (thought you'd never guess) 6:oopsical- not to be confused with ooksical 7:RTFM- Read the fraggin Manual (for lobo lovers) 8:shoulder- yes I'm still talking about the non-corporate Bob, it's just that well, until a Bob is fully comfortable with its new position, it still thinks it has a body, and this can be used against it. 9:muddled- thoughts are liquid. The mind is a gas, but thoughts are liquid. In fact, thoughts are a polar liquid. Unfortunately this means that they, like water, mix with dirt to form mud.