My friend Rob
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Today I’m binge-watching Bob Ross. No, really.
Call me Pope Ernie. Or His Holiness Ernest the Oneth, if you’re a Shiite Catholic.
The sprawling, epic saga of four (or five, sort of) influential authors, all of whom have, alas, joined the choir invisible, but who also, may all our flagons of ale in Valhalla ever be full, cannot sue me.
I didn’t look like a kid with big hands; I looked like a kid wearing a pair of those giant foam hands they use to play Slapjack on the Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon.
And now, children, hear and remember the tale of me, Billy Paul, Mrs. Jones, my friend Rob, and my dog Meatball: Long, long ago, in a little state named Kansas, which no one wants to admit coming from except the classic rock band Kansas and possibly Bob Dole, two young men and a dog were tooling around town in the legendary muscle car Charles the Deep Breather, which probably sounds silly because you weren’t there,Read More