He tries to raise my confidence level by regularly telling me how good I look. If Bob had fingers, they'd routinely be crossed behind his back.
"Shpritz me with some Windex, Perry," Bob said one morning.
"Why? Are you dirty?"
"Nah, but if I see you more clearly I can better advise you."
"What do you mean?"
"I think you should get a haircut."
"Why is that?"
"It's too long for someone who doesn't have enough of it!"
"I know, but I'm a child of the Sixties."
"Cool, man! Groovy! Sorry about Bob Weir. But get the damn haircut!"
"I'll see," I said, and later that day I hit a nearby standup open mic.
That night, the pilot on the Enola Gay had nothing on me.
As I left the stage, a woman tapped me on my shoulder
"I'm Janet," she said. "Get yourself a haircut. It will up your game."
I was crestfallen, but I thanked her, and I and my fallen crest headed home.
"Okay, Bob," I said, "a woman at the club agreed with you and said I'd be funnier if I got a haircut."
"Who knows, Perry? It could be true, so get that haircut."
And so I did.
My hair was cut well above my ears and radically sliced and diced in the back! I felt like a plucked chicken, no respect to chickens because I am an animal rights person.
So the next week, I trotted back to the comedy club, and again I bombed.
I went up to Janet.
"I thought you said if I got a haircut, it would up my game!"
"Yes, but given your act," replied Janet, "we had to try something!"
I stormed back home and went right up to Bob.
"So I got the damn haircut," I shrieked, "and I still sucked! Even Janet said it didn't make a damn bit of difference."
"Quite frankly, Perry, I didn't think it would."
"What the fuck, Bob??!!!"
"You do look better," Bob said, "which makes it a hell of a lot easier for me to lie to you about everything else!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bob?
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