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<P>Bob Robertson was a normal man in most ways. He kept his hair neat, his fingernails short. He rooted for local teams during the appropriate sport seasons and drank beer on the weekends. He had a Master’s in Business Administration and also worked in a dildo factory. Bob drove a new Nissan Maxima and he hadn’t had sex in over four years.</P>
<P>Bob was on the way to work, relishing the new car scent while it lasted. Work was on his mind but his sex drought was always bubbling beneath the surface. The lack of sex fomented a nervous twitch in his neck that grew more severe with each month that passed. He fantasized about most women he saw, even old and ugly ones. He fantasized about the Burger King cashier with the perpetual Band-Aid on her chin that seemed to disguise a wound that would never heal. He mentally raped the girl who carried out his groceries for him, and tipped her ten dollars to atone for it. </P>
<P>Bob’s unintentional celibacy was rooted solely in the fact that he worked in a dildo factory. Bob’s single greatest fault was a trait most people admired but, for him, was the equivalent chastity belt comprised of gnashing piranhas. Bob was an honest man. Any possibility of sex or even a date ended as the words “I work in a dildo factory” left his mouth. Yes, he could have dressed it up a bit. Something to the effect of “I am the production supervisor for a national…blah blah blah” would have sufficed, would have bored more precisely, but at least not disgusted. Still, the bane of honesty claimed him and his body considered abandoning sperm production in favor of more facial hair.</P>
<P>As he neared the dildo factory a red Civic drifted into his lane, corrected itself, and quickly returned to its proper lane. At the next red light Bob pulled beside the Civic and took a peek. The driver, a college-aged blonde with a cell phone in one hand and a Snapple in the other nodded at him to demonstrate her remorse. In return, Bob molested her in his head. His mouth slackened until he resembled a caveman and the blond, thoroughly offended, sped off as the light turned green.</P>
<P>Bob sighed as his neck twitched.</P>
<P>Bob played Warcraft in his office. The next boss on the totem pole worked halfway across the country so Bob answered to no one. Production numbers were stable and no deliveries were anticipated. The factory employed a little over a dozen people, mostly Spanish-speaking immigrants who were very efficient and often took defective dildos home as chew toys for their dogs. Bob fantasized about using the most common defective dildo, the two-headed variety, on a marginally good looking woman that smiled sheepishly when he came around. He tried to strike up a conversation with her once and realized then that she was mentally retarded. That discovery didn’t prevent him from imagining her strolling into his office, dressed as his favorite Warcraft character with a two-headed dildo in either hand.</P>
<P>Sometimes, when he wasn’t daydreaming about retarded immigrants, Bob though about committing suicide. The thoughts often ended with daydreams about retarded immigrants.</P></FONT>
