![Bob Is Selfish [1242x1768 - 136KB]](https://pic8.co/sh/snf4gb.jpg){kind=link}
Bob is a Covid god!
Bob is a Covid god!
Be like Bob.
Be like Bob.
His secret is not being injected with poison.
His secret is not being injected with poison.
Bob also worked the entire pandemic, in a mask as an essential service while the selfish others stayed home on the dole
Bob also worked the entire pandemic, in a mask as an essential service while the selfish others stayed home on the dole
Now Bob's being awarded for his brave approach to the scamdemic by loosing his job because Bob refuses to infect himself with jewRNA
Now Bob's being awarded for his brave approach to the scamdemic by loosing his job because Bob refuses to infect himself with jewRNA
Looks like Bob is surrounded by idiots.
Looks like Bob is surrounded by idiots.
Ded idiots = gooded
Ded idiots = gooded
Goodified iz Dee goal.. goodification as it were.
Goodified iz Dee goal.. goodification as it were.
Bob is a pureblood.. an Aryan maybe?
Bob is a pureblood.. an Aryan maybe?
That is not the true bob, for although bob has super powers he can only kill himself through you. To some this would appear as murder, but to bob it's just renewal of his tag. For the waiting lines are in a way a sort of death, as the sheboon at the counter dries her nails, you serenely die in the endless waiting line that lasts longer than her nailpolish takes to dry. You lose track of time and yourself, surrounded by tormented souls yet alone as you feel their contempt, you shell up and assume the room is empty. That painful irony of being surrounded yet untethered a sort of interpersonal deprivation. Present bodies that for the most part are apathetic to your very existence and you entranced by that same dispair enter the placid acceptance. How could it not be seen as death itself?
That is not the true bob, for although bob has super powers he can only kill himself through you. To some this would appear as murder, but to bob it's just renewal of his tag. For the waiting lines are in a way a sort of death, as the sheboon at the counter dries her nails, you serenely die in the endless waiting line that lasts longer than her nailpolish takes to dry. You lose track of time and yourself, surrounded by tormented souls yet alone as you feel their contempt, you shell up and assume the room is empty. That painful irony of being surrounded yet untethered a sort of interpersonal deprivation. Present bodies that for the most part are apathetic to your very existence and you entranced by that same dispair enter the placid acceptance. How could it not be seen as death itself?
Fucking bob
Fucking bob
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