Call me Bob

I’m not an easily bummed out guy. While there have certainly been a few roller coaster moments in my alcoholic life experience when it comes to self image, for the most part I feel fairly confident with who and what I am. I’m certainly not dreaming about inventing a time machine so I can jump back and forth through the time continuum making love to myself (don’t think I haven’t thought about it though) but I don’t normally get too down on my appearances either.

I have bad skin, and I’ve made my peace with that. I have an average dick, and you know what, average is good enough for me. I brandish that mediocre dick like I’m Zorro, and if you don’t believe me ask you mom. (Ooooooh, lame burn!) I completely gave up on styling my hair in any sort of way and just cut it short so it dries and styles itself with absolutely zero effort on my part. I never match my socks, I get dressed in the dark, and almost all of my pants have paint all over them. Zoolander I am not.

But the other day I had one of those moments where you see something new about yourself and it freaks you the fuck out. I was changing clothes at work, and I just happened to glance at the mirror as I was bending over to drop trough, and I saw the sight. It stopped me in my tracks and I had to go back for a second look. The second look was certainly no more encouraging than the first glance, in fact it was even worse than I had originally surmised. I’m sorry to say ladies and gentlemen, I have moobs.

I have big, sagging, gross ass man boobs, and I am not the least bit happy about it. When the fuck did my once tight pecks turn into moobs? More importantly, how the fuck am I going to turn them back into pecks before the middle of June when my woman comes down to visit and I have to be seen neked a lot. (that is to say, I have to be seen neked a lot by a woman, seeing as I weekly endure correctional officers conducting strip searches on my person) I am ok with having a gut, I am ok with the bad skin, and the farmers tan, and the stretch marks on my cracker ass. But moobs cross the fucking line.

So now I’m on a working mans diet, and am trying real hard to do push ups and maybe even lift a weight or two so I won’t have tits the next time I have sex. A working man’s diet consists of changing nothing about my diet except I put one less spoon full of sugar in every mug of coffee, I stop eating candy, and I skip breakfast. Also I will try working harder while I am actually getting paid, that way I not only get in better shape and get a free gym, but I also impress my boss for the non existent raise my company would have given me if they had not frozen all raises indefinitely because of our cock gobbling economy. (legalize pot Obama, you know you want to make sure the first black president not only spends more money than any president ever, but also pays for it with weed)

For now I am estimating myself at a solid B cup. Wish me and my tits luck.

PS – I have named them Brutus and Hagar, (left and right respectively) please address them as such in your prayers.


6 responses to “Call me Bob

  1. I almost fell off my fucking chair when I saw the title pf this post!!
    I just posted pictures of Bob (

    When I stop laughing at this whole thing I will be back to have a chat with you and Brutus and Hagar….


  2. I almost fell off my fucking chair when I saw the title pf this post!!
    I just posted pictures of Bob (

    When I stop laughing at this whole thing I will be back to have a chat with you and Brutus and Hagar….

    Sorry, forgot to add great post! Can’t wait to see your next post!

  3. Awwwww, poor Josh and his self consciousness about his moobs!
    Now, I won’t deny it (cuz that isn’t my style)….moobs aren’t cool. BUT, I give you all the credit in the world for acknowledging, writing, naming and vowing to kill them.
    Good on ya! See you in hell, Brutus and Hagar!
    And btw, I happen to know that Em really doesn’t give a shit about your moobiness.

  4. Jeez baby, I keep telling you, tits are fun! πŸ˜› Don’t worry, I’d love you even if you had to wear a bro.

  5. Trisha Truly: Yeah, I was making a Fight Club reference about Bob’s bitch tits. If you haven’t seen the movie, do so immediately, you may come in your pants from the awesome overload.

    T-rex: Moobs aren’t anyone’s style. Especially not mine. I am on a mission to lose the tits, even if you-know-who is cool with them.

    Em: I know you would love me. That’s not the point. I don’t want to be a sloppy fat ass dude. Chicks get more feminine when they gain weight, ei: bigger T&A. But guys just look like fat jerk offs. Especially considering I will probably be living with you for a while with no income, I really don’t want to be that boyfriend who sits on his girlfriend’s couch living off her income AND is fat. I can really only take so many negative stereotypes at one time before I feel like shit. Besides, I know you’d totally dig me if I was all cut and 300 looking. I don’t want you to love me for my amazing personality and brains, I also want you to drool when I walk around naked and fantasize about eating sushi off my abs. The moobs have to go.

    But thanks for the support. ❀

  6. Good luck slaying Brutus and Hagar, and now that I’ve seen you in action via le video, I can’t imagine something like moobs taking the stars out of my eyes, you’re a looker! (err…wait….is Em on this comment thread?….hmm…awkward)

    BAHAHAHA…..I love you guys! πŸ˜€ And seriously you’ll get to where you want to be, you’ve got a plan, you can do it! πŸ™‚

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