A wordsmith magician named Bob, of all things


The Legend of Sir Bob (without subtitles!)

Once upon a time, there lived a young, wild, and robust narrator
who went by the name of Bob.
He was the best of bards,
a MacArthur Fellow,
the upper crust
Like the bubbly bits that rise on top of a pie,
he was equal parts
crunch, spice and that kind of char that isn’t quite burnt
But oh so satisfying.
In the days before pizzas,
fairy tales and fables were the only toppings
that could sate a hungry audience,
and Bob carried them in spades.

As brave abandoned children, talking animals and other risktakers
made their ways across the stage of their own stories,
Bob the Narrator would keep pace with them,
taking notes and making legends in the process.

He was there in the garden of Olympus when the goddess Aphrodite
accidentally gave Hercules a bad case of mono,
and also present the time Ms. Fairy Godmother
mistakenly changed a princess into a set of silverware.

Bob kindly chose not to inscribe these mishaps;
after all the way we remember myths
is far different from how they were created.

Instead he wrote how Hansel and Gretel
survived a brush with morbid obesity,

about the time three grizzly bears donated
to the Needy Golden-Haired Charity,

and why leopards carry spots
like they have a venereal disease
covering their bodies.

The whole time he told these tales,
he would keep listeners glued to their seats:
hypnotized like the guy with the Golden Voice
or the other guy who does all the movie trailers known to man,
or that final guy, Morgan Freeman.

Nowadays, the hair that remains on Bob’s head has turned gray
and his brain is slowing down a couple of beats per year.
It used to run at light speed, powered by 1.21 gigawatts,
but now the poor man’s tongue doesn’t move as fast as it used to
and while our storyteller tempers his tempo
to keep from putting his speech through the spellchecker,
a voracious wolf with a craving for child
devours a wine-colored young lady who
didn’t notice his teeth quickly enough.

Or in the case of a Freudian slip, heaven forbid,
the entomophobic princess ends up with with her one blue glove,
a termite in shining armor riding in on a trusty flea.
Obviously not the kind of happy finish Disney would be proud of.

Even worse is when the ending slips the raconteur’s mind,
and his mythical characters spend their time
playing with pixelated iPhone cameras:
taking artsy photos of the catering table at awkward angles
and posting them to Instagram.

However, despite these sign of decline,
Bob refuses to go into retirement.
He will continue to be a narrator until his dying day,
because he knows that lives can change
from a single line of text,
that epic acts can motivate the best in us
and that an escape into Wonderland
is the greatest abracadabra,
save a decent card trick.

3 thoughts on “A wordsmith magician named Bob, of all things

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