Bobby?
“Have you seen my sandals?”
Where was the last place you had them?
“I remember that everything got real dark.”
You’re talking about the eclipse.
“If you say so. And, uh, then things get kind of fuzzy. Hey, you think it’s possible–”
No.
“–that my sandals got raptured? Just a trial balloon.”
Did you check under the couch?
“Yup.”
Maybe you left them on the side of the sink while you were shaving.
“I don’t shave.”
Did you trade them for magic beans?
“Ah. That’s it. Now I remember.”
Bobby. Again?
“You don’t understand: these were truly magical beans. If you, uh, planted one in the ground, then a beanstalk would grow.”
A giant one?
“No, no. Normal size.”
That’s not magic, Bobby. That’s agriculture.
“And I got some magical watermelon seeds.”
Do they grow watermelons?
“Well, not at this latitude, but they have the potential.”
Go ask Phil if you can borrow a pair of his old white guy sneakers.
“My feet have committed no crime, and I won’t sentence them to prison.”
Fine, do what you want. Hey, have you talked to Red Metal Stool lately?
“That guy. Caught him going through my fanny pack. Things are rough between him and me right now.”
I’m so sorry.
“I appreciate that.”
That is one of the perqs of being Bob – you can put a rider in the contract that you are allowed to walk around barefoot while signing guitars.
P.S. Some of the other riders – who-weeee!