I am Roberto. I am twenty five plus the number of chili dogs you can conceivably eat before getting the runs. I’m an average guy. I like to watch football in my underoos. I snack on beer nuts and Slim-Jims. I know how to change a tire and unclog a drain. I try not to fart in public and only two of my shirts have pit stains. I even volunteer as an usher at my church and I pick flowers for my grandmother.
Here are some things people are saying about me:
Neighbor Phil: Roberto has the decency to fetch the morning paper in a robe, unlike Cornelius down in #4 who flashes all the school children with his pasty, pimply buttocks.
The cashier at Pickle Palace: Roberto has a fine palate for pickled pabulum.
Cubicle mate Swanson: I have a cubicle mate? I hadn’t noticed; I listen to my iPod all day.
Ex-girlfriend Fran: Oh he’s a real gentleman alright. He let me keep that fabulous strand of herpes he passed along to me. Asshole.
But I have a secret. I’m not the nice guy everyone thinks I am. I steal from the collection basket every Sunday to fund my peep show addiction. I can’t get enough. Sweaty, bouyant breasts pressed against a pane of bulletproof glass, red spotlights providing a heavenly vignette? Come on now. When sinning feels so good, why would I want to stop?