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Subcomandante Bob's Mailbag

(Toledo, OH) From time to time Subcomandante Bob gets letters. OK, he gets a lot of letters from bill collectors and municipal courts, but we aren't talking about those kinds of letters. Those get stuffed into a drawer under the television set, and only get taken out when Bob needs something to light the grill with.

The letters we are talking about are those from readers. Bob, for an unexplained reason, seems to evoke in readers a belief that he has advice to offer, advice that only comes from hard living and associating with ne'er-do-wells.

That being said we bring to you a few letters from Bob's mailbag:

Dear Subcomandante Bob:

My wife of 18 years left me, which is bad enough, but she also took our home theater. Given that the Super Bowl is coming up, what would you recommend that I do - go to a bar and sit with a bunch of drunks, or go to a friend's house and sit with a bunch of drunks?

Marty in Maumee

Dear Marty:

Did you buy that TV? Did you work hard for that home theater? If you can invent a way to answer "yes" to at least one of those questions, then I suggest you get your cousin Jerry's Dodge Ram and go reclaim your property. Furthermore, nothing says "gimme back my shit" better than a loaded 12-gauge, so be sure to pack heat. And if her good-for-nothing, smarmy stockbroker of a boyfriend's BMW is in the driveway, be sure to say "hello" by scratching the paint with your keys.

Dear Bob:

My Mom says that I can't play over at Mr. Vandervooten's house any more because of some stupid girl named Megan that they passed a law about. He's really nice, and he lets us come over and play video games. What should I do?

Billy in Toledo

Dear Billy:

Bob thinks your Mom is right. Sorry, pal. But Bob also thinks your Mom is pretty sexy, judging from the photo you sent. Bob wants you to send more pictures of your Mom, and also to give her this cell phone number (enclosed). Thanks, kiddo.

Dear Bob:

I am the mayor of a mid-sized Ohio city who struggles with keeping his temper. Some people say that I am as crazy as a rabid dog on crystal meth with a razor blade stuck in its paw, but I don't believe I am that nutty. Just a little edgy. Anyways, what do you think I could do to relieve stress and keep from killing people?


Dear C-man:

You are not fooling anyone, mister, and you owe me $50 from last weekend. I don't have slush funds like you to tap, and I need the money. Pay up before I have to drive over there and beat you like a donkey.

Bob for President!
Bless you, my child. Bob might run just to get his hands on some of that phat campaign cash. God, the trouble he could get into with a couple of million...

C-man had the same dreams and look where it got him, writing to you and referring to himself thusly:

"...but I don't believe I am that nutty. when, in fact, he is.

Think slippery slope man.

It ain't worth it man...
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