I have a FIFTH fucking Bob!

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have a fifth Bob.

Kidding?

No.

I could not make this shit up.

He called me today. I had completely forgotten about him.

Why?

Because he is an absolute bag of douche. Not the nice clean bag you begin with. The nasty, left-over, Paris Hilton-disease-infested bag of douche you get when you're done.

Here's our background (and why he has my phone number in the first place):

We met at my local hangout bar, had too many drinks while talking to eachother, and ended up going home together. I thought he had impregnated me, he dodged me for a few weeks, then mysteriously called me (at that time I knew I wasn't pregnant, but decided to play it out for a while since he was being a complete dickhead about it); then he vanished into the mist again, only to call me a few weeks later to see how I was doing.

Um, fine, I guess, asshat.

This all played out in, like, May.

Fast forward to today.

I get a local call on my way home from work and I answer it cause sometimes people call me from their work phones or whatever.

"Hey, it's Bob Whatever-the-hell-my-last-name-is. How are you?"

I was better not remembering you existed, yo.

So he proceeds to tell me about how nice he thinks I am and how we should get together and go do something nice, "start over" or some bullshit.

Absolutely. As soon as Lindsay Lohan puts down the crack pipe.

Whatever would make a guy think (giving them alot of credit here....going for a stretch) that after he tried to ditch me when I mentioned I thought I was pregnant by him I would want anything to do with him besides slicing off his pecker is beyond me.

That wasn't exactly a stellar showcase of your trustworthiness, hombre.

Hence my forgetting about his pathetic existance.