Bob Boldfeld

Bob Bobfeld is not acclaimed. He is uniquely without distinction, merit, achievement nor individuality. Mr. Bobfeld possesses no qualities, is average in height, weight, physical appearance, dress, manner and style. No one has ever recalled meeting Mr. Bobfeld. He leaves no impression. He has no accent when he speaks in that audible mix of monotonic affirmations and niceties. Mr. Bobfeld worked in the accounting department of the First National Bank in Brush, Indiana. For twenty-seven years Mr. Bobfeld was never late, never sick, eating lunch at twelve and leaving at five sharp. He never received a raise nor change in title. He remained faithfully “Bob Bobfeld, Accounting Department.” When he retired his co-workers simply said that his position had been vacant for years and that it had been very difficult to fill. Mostly temps. Bob Bobfeld died unpublished having never written anything. He had no aspirations to write anything. In fact, his mother, who claimed that “Bobbie” died in childbirth, never wrote anything. The editors of The Blue Jew Yorker, deeply pained by the worthless life of Bob Bobfeld, have decided to write something on his behalf. Following their credo that “even the worthless among us deserve to be dissected,” the editors offer this penetrating and profound snippet into the life of Bob Bobfeld.


		The Bio of
		Bob Bobfeld
		Bob Bobfeld is not acclaimed. He is uniquely without distinction, merit, achievement nor individuality. Mr. Bobfeld possesses no qualities, is average in height, weight, physical appearance, dress, manner and style. No one has ever recalled meeting Mr. Bobfeld. He leaves no impression. He has no accent when he speaks in that audible mix of monotonic affirmations and niceties. Mr. Bobfeld worked in the accounting department of the First National Bank in Brush, Indiana. For twenty-seven years Mr. Bobfeld was never late, never sick, eating lunch at twelve and leaving at five sharp. He never received a raise nor change in title. He remained faithfully “Bob Bobfeld, Accounting Department.” When he retired his co-workers simply said that his position had been vacant for years and that it had been very difficult to fill. Mostly temps. Bob Bobfeld died unpublished having never written anything. He had no aspirations to write anything. In fact, his mother, who claimed that “Bobbie” died in childbirth, never wrote anything. The editors of The Blue Jew Yorker, deeply pained by the worthless life of Bob Bobfeld, have decided to write something on his behalf. Following their credo that “even the worthless among us deserve to be dissected,” the editors offer this penetrating and profound snippet into the life of Bob Bobfeld.
		A Day in the Life of Bob Bobfeld 5:30 am—My head is the size of a dumpster. 7:00 am—One ant. Two ant traps. 8:17 am—Reorder pencils. 9:29 am—Light right foot on fire. Same thought everyday at 9:29 am. 10:32 am—Must work on having another thought. Buy the manual. 11:52 am—What’s the time? 12:43 pm—Cuticles provide hours of pleasure. 3:00 pm—Reorder the thin rubber bands. 4:12 pm—Is headcheese really brain? 5:00 pm—My head is the size of a dumpster.
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